So, the last year of the 1980s, and my seventeenth year of birth, began with the sudden death of my father from a heart attack, or “myocardial infarction”, as stated on his death certificate. Dad's death marked the first time I'd experience the loss of someone close to me, or, at least, someone in close proximity to me. He and I would never be bonded emotionally and our relationship remained, for the most part, an adversarial one. We couldn't relate to each other, had very little in common during our time in each other's respective lives, and, in his eyes, I would always represent a perpetual barrier to his securing his wife's undying love and fidelity. Lacking any real emotional intelligence, Dad simply didn't have the psychological wherewithal to understand my mother's behaviours and manage them appropriately. If, towards the end of his life, he figured out how incapable she was of loving him, he didn't reveal this and his love for and belief in her as the only one to satisfy his needs suggested otherwise. Therefore, I suspect he died in ignorance of her inability to either love anyone else or express love in positive and meaningful ways. In reality, whatever she had to give was always conditional and, upon reflection, really not worth having.

Prompted by Dad's sudden absence, I found myself attempting to reconcile the expected and accepted expressions of bereavement with my deeply rooted feelings of hatred and disconnection. Having reflected on my outward expressions of emotion at the time of dad's death, I realised my tears were those of shock, and, to some extent, relief, rather than those born out of grief. His passing would not lead me to romanticise about our relationship and revise it into something better than it was and I can't admit to having been sombre in mood for too long before adopting the role of surrogate father for my eleven-year-old sister while providing some comfort to my superficially grieving mother. Yet, time and experience has enabled me to view my father slightly less unkindly and recognise my own gratitude for those ways in which I actually take after him. However, it'd be another eight-and-a-half years before I'd feel the kind of profound pain associated with death. This would come following the deaths of two people who died within two months of each other, one whom I never met and the other I'd never have expected to meet.

Meanwhile, at the age of sixteen, I found myself eager to discover where I fitted in and where I could truly enjoy and learn about life. In seeking the kind of pleasure and adventure born of youthful exuberance, having to experience the pain of life didn't occur to me at all. Nor did I understand my mind and body sufficiently at that time to realise how I had been, and would likely, respond in the future in certain environments and situations. I knew nothing of the wolves that had already begun sniffing at my door. They would continue to do so at regular intervals throughout my life and wreak havoc in my personal relationships until I could understand how to bring them under some control. However, without realising it, I'd already started to learn to be me although it wouldn't be too long before events conspired to test my character to the full and teach me about the kind of person I was, and would, become.

Those who knew me as a child, and then as a teenager, would rightly regard me as a number of things, depending on their interactions with me. To some, I was the fool, the joker, the class comedian and always up for a laugh. To others, I was cocky, an attention seeker, a tormentor, and a kid with a huge chip on his shoulder. While failing to recognise the chip at the time as being exactly that, I realise in retrospect how easily roused I was to anger. I couldn't have expected much else given the environment in which I grew up, where my parents were unable to observe proper boundaries and take responsibility for their behaviour but expected their children to do just that, despite the lack of good example and everything to the contrary. The injustice of their hypocrisy would influence all my future relationships, both private and professional. Not only would it put me on constant guard against anyone remotely similar in character, it also set me on a number of collision courses with those similarly negligent in their responsibilities. Furthermore, it ensured that any semblance of a relationship with my mother became, and remained, as fractious and combative as that with my father. So, at this point in time, I had a conflict to resolve between my mother's self-exonerating assertions that we moved home so many times because I upset the neighbours, and that it was my behaviour towards my father that ultimately killed him, and my belief that I couldn't be the bad person she said I was. In truth, we moved so often on account of my mother's depression and her misguided belief she'd be happier, or less unhappy, elsewhere, coupled with the stream of County Court judgements that landed periodically on our door mat. As for what killed my dad, his death certificate made no mention of my behaviour! Therefore, I had to go out into the world in search of second opinions in order to learn about life, learn about me, and find out who was right and who was wrong.

The desire for fun and adventure in the early 1990s led me into a string of casual jobs, house moves, and both casual and lifelong relationships. In the summer of 1989, I began working as a terribly ill-prepared second chef at a local Brewers Fayre pub called 'The Horseshoes', in East Farleigh, another sleepy rural village located in the south of Maidstone, next to Coxheath, the village where I spent six years of my childhood. With my formal education having ended following our move to Malta in July, 1986, I felt at somewhat of a disadvantage having no formal qualifications when applying for jobs, and landing a post at 'The Shoes', as it was known to locals, would not be the last time I'd have to blag my way into a job and trade on personality or previous experience rather than qualifications. Thankfully, some of the kids I'd known from school already worked there so it was good to see some familiar faces. One particular face belonged to my table-tennis buddy, Michelle, who I'd met at the playscheme held for local kids at Coxheath village hall in the summer holidays. Michelle was also in the same class in junior school as my elder sister, Dee. Sporting golden locks, thick eyelashes, a generous pout and an attitude that gave off intimidating “don't fuck with me” overtones, I found myself instantly drawn to her. Her boldness and inclination to speak her mind dovetailed perfectly with mine. Delving a little deeper, and after having spent some time with her and her loving parents, I realised how they'd nurtured her with the kind of responsible and wholesome parenting that led her to become the honest, steady, and dependable woman I still know her as to this day. To me, she represented boundaries and stability, something my life had lacked, which further drew me to her. Her presence in my life provided something of an anchoring influence, a beacon in those moments during my life when I felt I'd lost my way, or couldn't feel that I'd lost myself.

In complete contrast, an additional significant influence around that time came courtesy of another female, albeit someone almost thirty years my senior. While not her real name, I shall refer to this free-spirited force of nature as “Shirley”. The combination of her overly wrinkled skin, nicotine stained teeth and darkened roots emerging from beneath her short, peroxide- blonde hair, made her appear older than her forty-eight-years. However, at heart, Shirley remained a good time gal who loved her family, her fags, her friend's home brew cider, and, especially, her men!

Shirley lived on a council estate outside of Maidstone, named Parkwood. While Parkwood didn't have the worst reputation of all the council estates around Maidstone, it was a place where I would never have expected to live. However, needs must, and, having fallen out once more with my own mother, I found myself renting a room in a council house from someone almost ten years her senior. Moving to Parkwood also meant living among some rather unsavoury characters, two of whom were Shirley's prodigiously law-breaking sons. Specialising in commercial burglary and narcotics, within days of meeting Shirley's elder son, he asked me to drive him to a friend's place over the other side of Parkwood. I found this a little odd, as the flat we ended up in was well within walking distance. Nonetheless, I'd just bought my first car, a mark II Ford Escort, from a friend, and needed no excuse to take my new wheels for a spin. Yet, what spun me round was what happened shortly after we arrived. No sooner had we both walked into the kitchen than both Shirley's son and his friend began frantically applying tourniquets to their arms, and then, right before my very eyes, began shooting up what I came to realise was heroin. Not long after, her other son left me similarly speechless and wondering what kind of situation I'd got myself into. Having also recently made his acquaintance, I joined him one particular day for a casual stroll through the alleyways of Parkwood towards the local shops. Emerging from the alleyway, we wandered towards a rather non-descript looking white van which lay between us and the parade. No sooner had we reached it, and with me obliviously mid sentence, Shirley's son produced a baseball bat concealed down the leg of his jeans, and, with one almighty thwack, proceeded to put the back window in, sending shattered glass flying in every direction. Then, he casually returned the bat to its hiding place, sniffed the air and proceeded to rejoin me in conversation. To this day I don't know why he did this and Iwas too stunned at the time to ask. Somebody had obviously crossed him. Following the van incident, this particular son would go on to steal from me, relieving me of my Philips twin-deck tape player and some pre-recorded VHS tapes.

Incidentally, despite having lied, cheated and stolen her way through most of her life, my mother would've looked down on Shirley and her sons for the fact that they lived on a council estate, regardless of their criminal exploits. She wouldn't deign to live in a council house herself, something her own cruel mother would mock her for, although my grandmother's hypocrisy would not be lost on me, and I suspect she wouldn't have deigned to live in one, either. In hindsight, there was very little difference in their respective behaviours except their socio-economic background and the conspicuousness of the crime. Interestingly, this would not be the last time I'd encounter similarly chaotic characters embroiled in a life of spiralling crime and
substance abuse, albeit in an entirely unexpected capacity.

Having taken another cheffing job at a pub a couple of villages away from Parkwood, my new car came in handy for getting me to and from work. However, before long, I realised that I'd bought a bit of a dud and the money I'd have to spend on it, coupled with my poor budgeting skills, meant my outgoings exceeding my incomings, and I soon struggled to pay my rent. Confiding in Shirley my predicament, the naivety of my nineteen years was such that I didn't anticipate her suggested solution. Instead of what I had expected, an offer to perhaps slightly lower my rent, or stagger payments, Shirley suggested I pay as much as I could in addition to which we could have sex. Under different circumstances, the prospect might have terrified me, however, Shirley and I had already developed a connection and struck up a good friendship, one based primarily on a mutual enjoyment of adventure, humour, fun and pleasure. We found ourselves indulging in various childish pranks, the more outlandish of which involved me removing my velcro side-fastening underpants in supermarkets then placing them on the checkout conveyor belt, along with our other purchases, and watching them inch towards the unsuspecting cashier, while engaging each other in deep conversation, but always with one eye on the reaction of the cashier, who would glare at them with a confused and horrified look on their face. I would chance my arm with a similar prank at that time when Michelle and I went with a group of other friends from 'The Shoes' to the local cinema to see the Arnold Schwarzenegger film, Kindergarten Cop. On this occasion I decided beforehand to cut the rear pockets out of my jeans and, except for the denim strip down the middle and wearing no underpants, completely exposed my bare buttocks. Upon them realising what I'd done, our group then splintered, with half too embarrassed to come to see Kindergarten Cop (so instead they went to see Rocky 5), leaving Michelle and I to see Kindergarten Cop as originally intended. However, Michelle, at the time, did not see the funny side and insisted we let everyone else in the cinema go before we attempted to leave. How I managed to make it through that night without having ten bells kicked out of me, I'll never know.

While it seemed like fun at the time, it's not exactly something I look back on with pride. I'd pull a similar supermarket stunt (what was it about supermarkets?) on poor beleaguered Michelle each time we stood at a checkout and I'd ask her, casually, but in a voice loud enough for the cashier to hear, whether her boyfriend still liked to eat her pussy, before watching her crumple into a mortified mess. Amid all the hilarity, Shirley's daughter, then in her late teens, would also be on hand on one particular occasion to provide a moment of supreme comedy gold. Having arrived home from the pub on a split shift and eager to get some shut-eye, I greeted Shirley and her daughter, who were cheerfully chatting away in the kitchen while chopping vegetables for their home-made pizza. They much preferred to buy a pizza base and create their own toppings. Leaving Shirley to sprinkle her grated mozzarella and her daughter to slice some chillies, I retired to my bedroom, and, after closing the curtains, soon fell asleep. The next thing I knew, I awoke to the sound of Shirley's daughter screaming at the top of her lungs in the bathroom opposite my bedroom, followed by the sound of frantic pounding on the floor, as if she were doing some kind of crazed war dance which was then followed by the sound of the shower tap being turned on full blast. Once the screaming had subsided, I stumbled back to bed, only to learn subsequently that Shirley's daughter had dashed to the bathroom to change her tampon. In the rush to insert a fresh one, she forgot to wash her hands after cutting up the chillies for their pizza and by the time she realised she was onto a loser, it was too late...

So, in response to Shirley's proposal, despite being fully comfortable with my nature and attraction to my own sex, it didn't seem unnatural to me to try and enjoy sex with Shirley, which we did on a regular basis. While it didn't fulfil me in the same way as the sex I'd enjoyed with men, both before and since, Shirley made it fun and exciting, even recruiting the son of a former friend, with him being a year or two older than me, into my first experience with group sex. Having overcome my financial difficulties and managing to save up enough money for a three month return ticket to California, I'd leave Shirley's in mid 1992. We'd see each other again from time to time upon my return until she then settled into a permanent relationship with someone nearer her age. With Shirley I got to indulge a wild and rebellious side to my character that I couldn't with Michelle. What I had with Shirley was fun but fleeting, and what I had with Michelle was profound and enduring, even during those times when distance became a barrier to regular face to face contact, as America would feature in my life again in the not too distant future.

Then, in late 1994, I found myself back in Lee in South-East London, where my life began almost twenty-two years before. By this time I'd already left catering for a career in hotels and a new job in the city. Owned at the time by the Stakis hotel chain, and in all it's towering red-brick Victorian grandeur, London St. Ermin's Hotel stood proudly at the end of a cul-de-sac around the corner from Buckingham Palace and Scotland Yard. Opening as a hotel in 1899, the frontage of the Grade II-listed St. Ermin's resembled that of the legendary London Savoy Hotel, with its drive in and out courtyard. St. Ermin's could make its own impressive claims to fame, having been built upon the site of a 15th century chapel, where in 1940 Winston Churchill held a historic meeting to establish a 'Special Operations Executive', which formed the basis of the SAS. MI6 were also stationed for a time in the hotel, which, according to folklore, also concealed a secret passage which ran from behind the hotel's grand staircase directly to the House of Commons.

Being the company's flagship branch, St.Ermin's became my hotel of choice on account of my having tended bar at its sister hotel in Maidstone. I underwent an internal transfer from Maidstone to St. Ermin's, first, as a receptionist, then as a night auditor. While a diminutive Asian fellow by the name of Wan Cheah, who always walked with his head tilted to one side, oversaw operations in Maidstone, the redoubtable trio that were General Manager, Mr. Wakeford, Deputy Manager, Mr. Giauna, and Front of House Manager, Mrs. Harlow, ran a tight ship at St. Ermin's. With reception falling under Front of House, I reported to Mrs. Harlow, and had more to do with her than Messrs Wakeford and Giauna. With her finely-tailored navy blue blazer and matching blue tartan pleated knee-length skirt, Mrs. Harlow dressed for, and meant, business. Despite being no older than mid thirties, with her air of mild disdain, Mrs. Harlow struck fear into the hearts of all who worked under her. In manner of my friendship with Michelle, Mrs. Harlow's strict school headmistress demeanour and no nonsense approach to her work drew me instantly to her. She too represented boundaries and as much as I'd often taken pleasure in testing boundaries, I knew she was not to be trifled with. However, finding ready favour with that pied-piperess, I soon joined Mrs. Harlow's merry band of queers, along with Richard and Thomas, the morning-suited hotel Club butlers. Being both expertly trained in their craft, Richard and Thomas's skills were in high demand and they could go anywhere they wanted, which they did at the end of 1994, when both left St. Ermin's to take up posts as butlers at the exclusive five-star deluxe Lanesborough Hotel on Hyde Park Corner. At that time, The Lanesborough housed the most expensive hotel suite in England.

Although now living back in Lee, where I spent the first seven years of my life, meant being close to my elderly relatives on my father's side of the family, while acquaintances were in ready supply, good friends were not. That made an unexpected knock at the door of the staff house one night from Tracy and Debbie, a couple I''d befriended at the Maidstone hotel, such a welcomed surprise. Equally unexpected was their suggestion that they take me, for my first time, to a gay bar. At the tender age of twenty-one, I guess I was something of a late-comer to the scene. This was due to a combination of indifference to the scene itself, a lack of such venues in or around Maidstone, and, importantly, no other gay friends, before Tracy and Debbie, with whom to hang out. However, with The Gloucester public house, on the edge of Greenwich Park, but fifteen minutes away by car, before I knew it, we'd pulled up outside. Not knowing what to expect beyond gaudy décor, effeminate men and butch lesbians, once inside, I saw the kind of well-worn red velvet seats and red paisley carpet characteristic of most saloon bars in public houses across the country at that time. There was also nothing particularly conspicuous about the patrons, either, with the majority dressed in suits with loosened ties contrasting with those appearing casually in jeans; nothing that resembled the derogatory stereotype I myself held and to which I felt I really could not relate.

My second outing would really open my eyes, and, again, with Tracy and Debbie, saw us venture into central London one Monday night to a club in the huge basement of the London Astoria, opposite the Centre Point building on Charing Cross Road. Constructed in the shape of an arena and built on two levels, the upstairs of the LA2 consisted of a bar on one side and a viewing gallery on the other, while downstairs was situated an enormous dance-floor separated into two parts by a large catwalk. As we sipped our drinks, I peered inquisitively through the glass and down to the dance floor. There in the dark, a few solitary figures had already taken to the floor. Dancing with complete abandon, and seemingly oblivious to the gaze of others, they moved with confidence as the track 'Love Eviction', by House music outfit Quartzlock, blasted out across the floor and into the abyss. I'd never seen anything like this in my life and found the enormity of it all somewhat overwhelming, not to mention intimidating. I'd also never seen anything like the characters that started steadily streaming in, from lace-up knee length boots and chaps in cherry red Doc Martens, short pleated tartan skirts and denim jackets, to full-blown Marie Antoinette drag complete with powdered wig.

As the LA2 came to exuberant life, I sat demurely in my black trousers, white shirt and black waistcoat, looking like I'd just come off the late shift at Cafe Rouge. My bottomless antics in Maidstone aside, I pondered as I started at the revellers below exactly how I'd fit in with the kind of ostentatious and pretentious characters I saw before me, if they were a typical example of London gays. I didn't feel the inclination to blur the lines of gender expression at that time in addition to which I was just beginning to learn how to enjoy manhood and dressing as a man would typically dress. That said, I would learn in time to think more critically about the issue of self-expression, what it meant to be a man and the kind of man I wanted to be. For now, I didn't feel the LA2 was for me, preferring something a little more intimate, less pretentious and with a smaller crowd. Indeed, it wouldn't be too long before I'd fine two such lower key venues, a rather dingy but friendly below ground bar on St. Martin's Lane in Covent Garden called The Brief Encounter (aka The Brief), and The Phoenix on Cavendish Square, to hang out of a Friday and Saturday night whenever my work rota allowed.

Curiously, approximately eighteen months later, it would be at The Brief Encounter where an altogether unexpected encounter would lead to a rather longer-term encounter, taking me on an overseas adventure which would end up changing the course of my life. However, the build-up to one of the greatest experiences I'd have up until that point in my life also lay elsewhere. That meant moving on from St. Ermin's after only seven months. Regrettably, it would also mean saying goodbye to the venerable Mrs. Harlow. I never did get to call her by her first name, Caryl, although one of my most endearing memories of her was the prominent gap she had between her two front teeth. I've absolutely no doubt though that she still runs a tight ship, wherever she may be. So, feeling hungry for a bigger and tastier piece of the London hotel pie as I was, in April, 1995, I followed where butlers Richard and Thomas led and headed to the exclusive The Lanesborough Hotel on Hyde Park Corner to be their new night auditor.