20/06/2013 11:30




My biographer Curtis Price spoke at length with me. I was concerned about timelines, about how readers might expect a simple continuity of my life unfolding. He disagreed, saying “Where is the fun in that. It is so predictable.”

He was so right- the mind and the brain generally, of which we still know very little, is not exactly disposed to following mankind’s predisposition to OCD.

How can, what we don’t know three quarters of the workings of, be a tidy space, as we would wish. Add to that our uncertainty about what we believe we know.

And how can there be any right method of doing anything involving recall.


You will be fed but you will not be not be spoon-fed.

Yes, there is a beginning, but as yet there is no end.


I told him “So many people let their minds develop into half baked potatos when the least they started off with was a promising play dough- such a sad waste of potential.

I like to imagine that the finest minds are composed of universal creative clay in the hands of a genius like Picasso.

Get inside those and there would be something worth looking at.”


He said “Way to go!”


So there it is, no boring ‘as it happened’ slog through the slough of time, its arrow forever stuck in our backs. No, we shall go white water rafting, manoeuvring through whirlpools and flying over waterfalls.

Awash with our memories we sail on the great seas of them, swim in their rivers- we will not drown because day by day we will let this mystery unfold pretty much like the mind works.

I love the words scattalogical and serendipity. It is not madness. It is being human in the employ of universal creativity.


If you are one of those imprisoned souls who keeps a journal that dictates to you what you will be thinking of today and every other day then you may not last the course.

If the word cunt sticks in your ‘sophisticated’ craw then you will choke in the mud flats of your deluded self. I wouldn’t think that laying yourself as bare would suit you, though a daily dose of voyeurism might just do the trick.

How dysfunctional are you? How dysfunctional is your ‘treasured’ family?



Why, as a boy of nine, was I wanking so much? I had never seen a cunt so there was no point in imagining it. Well, I had the pleasurable good fortune of having a foreskin, and all the increased sensitivity that comes with that. Just pulling it back and forth over the swelling of my glans penis was enough to thrill the immensely flexible spine of a boy from neck to coccyx.

I am right handed- statistics suggest that that is a factor that may give me a chance of a longer life. More time for genital pleasure. My right hand and my spittle and my erection in orchestra played the best of tunes. Orgasms and no spunk as yet.


There were dolls in the house, girl dolls. You could only get girl dolls then. And between the legs of these dolls there was nothing- an utterly blank hard plastic canvas. Not a frigger’s fodder in any respect.

By comparison I had it all- balls, a playstick and my erotic thoughts were concentrated on these babies. How would it grow? When would it spit? Would there be hair, what colour, what texture and where?

I was craving the outburst of my male sexuality and it was that warm and delicious prospect that was turning me on.


Put into this mix an emotionally distant father who rarely if ever held me close and you can begin joining dots.

The latest research suggests, very strongly, that regardless of pernicious and propagandist nurturing by bigoted parents, a child will innately decide the direction of their sexual preference between the ages of four and five.

Having said that, I never played with the dolls, I knew that there was something strangely dishonest about them- none of them was ugly and none of them had any genitals.

He got dressed in blue and played with toy lorries and trains- never messed with mother’s shoes, he even fucked girls, got married, had daughters and grandchildren but still ended up very happily homosexual, as he was always meant to be.

Back then men loving men brought shame on your family, made you an outcast, forced you to seek out gay ghettos and constantly live in fear of the homophobic police and incarceration. Consensual sex between two adult men then was illegal, even in private, and very often prosecuted and widely publicised.

The law has since changed but I remain in two minds as to whether society has truly reformed its ingrained attitudes to what was once perceived not only as a perversity but also as a mental health condition.

Boy babies are still celebrated with the colour blue. Girl babies are still celebrated with the colour pink. It is a palpably prejudicial bigotry at work from the outset. The fact is that despite these pathetic efforts to avoid ‘abnormality’ what will be will be. Humankind has always been quite unable to outwit nature despite what it believes in.


I probably wanted my father to sexually abuse me. I wanted to know what lay in secret below the black leather snake that gripped his trousers to his waist. I would have let him do anything to me just to know that he loved me. Simple.

Fact is he was not a paedophile.

His own history had ripped him of emotional empathy- well, selectively.

Just like the rock star Elton John mentioned in a television interview I was ripe to be groomed by a predatory male within my family but they didn’t exist. It was a childhood disappointment. I know I would have easily colluded. It was already in my nature not to resist.


When I first lost my virginity to a girl, a curate’s daughter, I’d been driven to it by curiosity and her manipulative guile. She’d been sleeping with a friend of mine- a fine artist on my A Level Course. I had fantasised about his cock and she would be able to furnish me with all the details.

Walking to her place for the ‘fuck me’ assignation I was reminded of when I must have found out about cunts. Chalk graffiti on Junior School toilet walls. I had gone home and undressed all the lying house dolls and drawn in indelible blue biro comic fannies on their blank plastic. There was the hairy truth; and now, here I was on my way to finally enter it with something very sacred to me.


She stood in the empty bath stark naked, covering her skin with baby oil. It was quite beyond me what the fuss was all about.

I let her undress me.

I was insistently asking her intimate questions about my friend.

She was answering them with an erotic frankness that gave me an erection.


She felt like a slippery fish beside me on her single bed. Claustrophobic.

Worried I’d go soft on her she decided to take control and ride me.

As my prick slid into the moist pink wound of her I felt significantly sick.


Reading my face she dismounted and vigorously masturbated me to climax.

Amazingly, despite my distaste, it became a regular gig.

For my birthday she bought me a leather bound copy of poems by Keats.

There is more. All beyond a complete understanding.

It was a pretty futile exploration of a prospective heterosexual man thing.

What was in it for her?

My big cock or my mind? You decide.


I now knew for sure my friend’s dick was way smaller than mine.

I also knew I’d been poisonously empowered.

Already steeped in Youth Theatre I could play-act at being straight as an essential survival mechanism to shield my illegal gayness.

Being gang-raped in prison has never been a fantasy of mine.

And yes, I have hated every day of this blatant lie that those circumstances forced upon me. Fucking hypocritical societies.

I loathe liars.

To this day I loathe liars and all deceptions.

In that sense I have always found it difficult to love myself- for having to live a lie for as long as I did.


My ‘arranged’ marriage was agreed to last 10 yrs. In fact it survived all manner of ills for thirteen.