More Cock-Eyed Optimism

By Nigel Quiney

This frank and honest memoir follows the life of Nigel Quiney aged twenty-one returning to London from the USA. He re-joins the family business of paper importers Ridley Quiney & Co. and leaves home. The new decade of the 'sixties is an exciting time and gay life is beginning to be more interesting, with more clubs and bars and even places where dancing is possible, subject to police raids. With his own studio he now has the freedom to entertain friends and it is in this period that he falls in love with Gordon Heath, the American actor/singer and begins a torrid affair with him. When this relationship finally finishes he resumes again his interest in design which culminates in his producing a range of unique gift-wrapping papers which immediately become best sellers. Thanks to the politics of the family business his gift-wraps were not taken up and thus he created his own business, Nigel Quiney Designs. This launches him into the excitement of Swinging London with increasing sales both at home and across the USA. With an expanding business he travels back to the USA where he indulges in the expanding gay life in New York and Los Angeles as well as promoting his gift-wrapping papers. In holiday times he discovered the joys of being gay in Ibiza and Morocco at a time when little tourism existed there.

In the mid-sixties he meets Ted and Gillian Thorpe. She, under the name of Eliot George wrote one of the first gay novels to be published - The Leather Boys, subsequently made into a successful film. Later when she was furthering her career by writing screen plays in Hollywood she and Nigel met. The following year Ted was looking for someone to share expenses when he planned to cross the USA in his Lotus Elan and Nigel put himself forward as his traveling companion. This started a life-long friendship and the two cross country drives produced many memorable and hilarious situations at a time when the English were a very rare event for Americans to come across.

This is the second of four memoirs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookPartnership.com
• Release date: Sep 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783015238

Book preview

Muriel.

PROLOGUE

Problem. How do I begin my second memoir? I had no problem starting my first. Why is the second so different? This difficulty has plagued me and certainly slowed my progress considerably as I wrestled with alternatives. So, for better or worse, let me begin thus.

It took me eight years to complete A Cock-eyed Optimist, my first memoir which dealt with my life up to the age of twenty-two. I started writing as soon as I left Ridley Quiney, which I sold in 1996, after more than a year of vainly haggling with a giant Japanese conglomerate and finally dropping them in despair and settling for a management buyout headed by 3i’s, a City of London institution owned by banks to finance just such a venture. I decided to write the detailed story of my life for two reasons; firstly as a family history, which I hope will interest my family including my nieces’ children when they are grown up and I am long gone from this world. Secondly, as a history of my time from World War Two, recording the way life used to be - in particular for a homosexual, growing up when to be gay was one thing but to make gay love was illegal and, if caught in flagrante dilecto, prison could become one’s home for a while. The occasional story of a sexual nature illustrates just how far we gays had to go for sex when very few legitimate meeting places existed. Thankfully times have changed.

Many of my colleagues at work persisted in asking me what I would do with myself when at the age of fifty-six I retired. I knew that I would travel with my long-term partner David Evans, now more than twenty-six years together as of 2008, but I was certain that I would find something else to occupy my time. The idea of writing my memoirs came to me a year before the RQ sale. Owning a computer was becoming more common and many homes now had one. David had written his books using a word-processor, which made the job so much easier. I decided that I would learn how to use a similar machine and I chose a laptop, which I could carry around on my travels. Portable computers were a relatively new creation then and it took me a while to get to grips with the rather awkward software available then – Microsoft’s Windows 93.

When I finally held a copy of A Cock-Eyed Optimist, the title of which was inspired by the lyrics of the song from the musical, South Pacific, I could hardly believe what I had achieved. Two months later encouraged by friends’ and relatives’ reactions, I started writing again. Subsequently, with the previous two decades now recorded, I began pondering the nineteen-sixties and ‘seventies. To my annoyance I began remembering more episodes and stories from the early years, so I apologise for my first chapter of this book which details the bits I left out. But before I start, I list below some of the characters whom I have already introduced in A Cock-Eyed Optimist, as they will appear again in this volume. They are alphabetically:-

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Annoyingly I have to correct a few mistakes in my first memoir, A Cockeyed Optimist. They are:-

Johnnie Ray too – Not Johnny.

De Havilland produced the Comet, not the Viscount which was made by Vickers.

V1 bombs. These were not propeller-driven but very early jets.

Several chums felt that my use of the word crutch was confusing. Did I mean a form of bodily support or the more modern word crotch? From now on I shall use the word crotch unless I am referring to the form of support.

The film Rock Around the Clock was not the first time we heard the song of the same name. Originally this song was used as the background music for the opening credits of Blackboard Jungle, released the year before.

The House of Wax was the third movie filmed in 3D not the first. The first was Bwana Devil an African adventure with snarling lions leaping from the screen. I wish I had seen it.

The second was Man in the Dark Suit and I wish I had seen that too.

CHAPTER 1

MEMORIES OF ME

US 1988

Starred: Billy Crystal

In the early hours recently, I awoke for my nightly pee and remembered that I had forgotten to include the details of my very first love affair in my original memoir. I wasn’t going to bother with it as in truth I had thought it a rather inconsequential little story I but have changed my mind.

She - yes she, was blonde with thick, long locks surrounding an angelic face. She had a glowing complexion like a china doll and wore the expected short full skirt and blouse and little Clarke’s brown sandals that school demanded. Her name was Gisele Wheeler and she was in the same class with me at Oakfield School. I was about eleven years old and she probably the same. Whenever possible we spent time together and would hold hands and gaze into each other’s eyes adoringly. Hers were the brightest blue, mine dark brown. I never knew where she lived or anything about her, but looking back now I am fairly sure that Gisele came from a German family, her name certainly suggests it and now I wonder if she was Jewish. She had no accent but did her parents flee the Nazis? When I passed the elevenplus exams and went to Dulwich College, we knew that our shortlived romance was going to come to an end.

On my last day at Oakfield, I gave her a parting present to remember me by. I gift-wrapped a little oblong box, which was slightly smaller than a pack of playing cards, though half as thick again. It was quite heavy and made of a rather dull silvery metal and the moulded lid displayed a couple of soldiers on horseback. I had bought it at one of the many charity bazaars I went to with mother, where I avidly spent my pocket money on bits and pieces. I was a compulsive collector with eclectic taste, but as this little box didn’t quite fit in with my other stuff I knew I wouldn’t miss it that much. Gisele was thrilled with it but clearly embarrassed, as she had not brought anything for me. She thanked me profusely and rushed away, returning a few minutes later and handed me a matchbox. In it was an advertising key ring and hanging from the chain was a tiny replica of a tin of Esso engine oil.

As I recalled this incident which took place nearly sixty years ago, I thought that I remembered where I might have stored the little gift and sure enough there it was in one of the Victorian vanity cases where I keep precious things. Am I sentimental?

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Mother had two chums who originally worked alongside her in her days at the Bank of South America. We called them auntie although we knew that they weren’t. They were elderly and looked rather stern to my twelve-year-old eyes but I was mildly curious about them although always forgetting where they actually fitted into mother’s life. When they visited us they looked very well-upholstered in their tailored suits and wore sensible shoes and matching handbags. Their names were Hammy and Ray. My memory of them is that every Christmas they gave Tony and I, twelve newly-minted penny coins each. This was supposed to be a very original and kind treat. Clearly they had gone to a lot of trouble to always obtain the newly-minted coins and we were suitably grateful. Although Hammy and Ray handed us the present personally, mother insisted that we also write to each of them for their kindness. My, how the world has changed… Today I feel lucky if a gift is even acknowledged, let alone remembered.

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I had been introduced to books at a very early age and quickly learned how to read which I thoroughly enjoyed. Winnie the Pooh was a great favourite, along with Alice, both In Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. Then I discovered the Just William series by Richmal Crompton. William’s adventures with Ginger and the ghastly Violet Elizabeth Bott who was always trying to muscle in on the boys’ activities were quite wonderful and so reminded me of my own with Michael Hopper down at East Dean. I must, however underline that Violet in no way resembled our Kris who ultimately was completely accepted by Michael and I. But when Violet endlessly cajoled the boys to accept her and, upon failing, tried blackmail with her lisping pout, … if you don’t, I will thqueam and thqueam ‘til I’m thick, always had me in fits of giggles. Later I discovered Enid Blyton and The Famous Five and The Adventure Stories which totally captivated me. Looking back now, I realise that all of these were like exaggerated extensions of my own adventures at East Dean with Michael and Kris. I am sure that we too tucked into ham sandwiches, tomatoes and lashings of ginger beer. All the characters in these books were my friends and I loved them dearly. Later, I must confess to a certain fascination with a series of books based on a girls’ finishing school in Switzerland … Oh dear! But, I also recall that it was from this series that I learned my first words of German. Surprisingly, I remember them to this day – fruhstuck= breakfast and mittagessen= lunch. Sadly I didn’t use this newfound knowledge until the late nineteen-nineties, when I was in Cologne for the first time but there so many people spoke English. Hey ho.

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Just the other day in 2005 I was watching a TV show debating the problems of there being far too many cars on the road and the absurdity of families owning big four-by-fours or people-movers. I realised that maybe such a vehicle was rather large for the school run, but they were ideal for holidays and recalled a recent trip to East Dean for a weekend with Kamaljeet and Matilda, Khush and Roop. On the afternoon of their departure, I happened to take a peek in their fairly new Ford Galaxy, a jumbo people-mover and was astonished to find that this very large car was packed to overflowing with stuff. I began to wonder how on earth we coped when visiting Albourne by car in our elderly small Morris Ten.

In my years at school we took our holidays at East Dean for a minimum of one month, if it was Easter, or two months if it was in the summer. It is incredible that our four-seater Morris was able to carry all of us the way that it did. Father drove with Tony and I, both lanky boys and growing fast, sharing the front passenger seat and behind us, grandpa, granny Grogie, and mother were squeezed together with our cat, Flipper, in his wicker basket, perched on mum’s lap. In the boot, we somehow packed up all the food from the larder and fridge, some clothes for us all, and finally, due to grandpa’s insistence, the super-large, expanding suitcase that my grandparents always took on holiday, wherever they went. The Morris was only able to carry this case because the boot-lid acted as an extra shelf as it was hinged at the base. Sometimes two bicycles were also strapped on the back as well. On one occasion we even took my two rabbits along with their hutch. I must have carried them on my and Tony’s laps. How this small ten horsepower car managed with all this weight, especially bearing in mind the journey, which included climbing the winding roads up and over the North and South Downs, was a small miracle. I do remember that when the road was at its steepest father had to deal with a lot of double de-clutching to change from second into first gear, after which the car slowly chugged up the hills at about four miles-per-hour. Comfort was not the name of the game when we journeyed to Albourne.

Then I recalled that there were no car seatbelts in those days and when we were babies, mother just sat in the car and carried us in her arms or we sat quietly at her side and there were no special, bulky infant seats to be strapped to the individual car seat. Plastic toys, jumbo-sized furry animals, games, paddling pools, umbrellas, pushchairs, potties and packs and packs of disposable nappies and all the other paraphernalia of family life with kids today just weren’t available. But I did chuckle at the thought of our mightily overfilled car trudging its way slowly down to the south coast from our house in Streatham.

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One summer when I was about twelve the whole Cullen family spent time with us at East Dean. These were my favourite cousins but we only had enough room at Albourne for the youngsters, David, Elizabeth and the twins, John and Richard. So, mother looked around to see what other accommodation she could find. As was the habit in the country she asked the various shopkeepers if they knew anyone with a spare room who would be prepared to provide bed and breakfast for Muriel and Arthur. In the end Mrs Grayson, the baker’s wife came up trumps and that is where they stayed.

We all had a hugely enjoyable time together with Granny Grogie and Grandpa, who usually stayed with us for the holidays. Sometimes we would have morning coffee at The Outlook, which was a prefabricated one-storey building situated right at the top of the high-ground just north of Friston church. On warm days we would sit at tables outside in the field, sipping our drinks admiring the rolling downland and the valley below in which East Dean was situated with Birling Gap to the south. The coffee was likely to be an ersatz brand named rather improbably Camp, a dark brown liquid which came in a bottle and I believe was made partly from acorns, but was quite pleasant. Real coffee was still heavily rationed to buy. In one corner of the field, a caravan was parked and The Outlook’s owners rented it out. One year the Livingstons, Don and Kath, my headmaster and headmistress of Oakfield School stayed there with Mark their son. I was quite envious and longed to spend a night with him in the caravan.

Our holiday with the Cullens was very typical; we took trips to Eastbourne, went for walks, had picnics on Birling Gap beach, paddled and swam in the sea, built sand castles and dams. I was particularly keen on the dams, which I created high up the sandy beach close to the rounded flint pebbles, which banked up under the cliffs. Here, water drained away to the sea and quite quickly my dam formed a lake within the confines of the walls, which Tony, David and I would constantly strengthen while the twins and Elizabeth would sit there looking very happy splashing away. Eventually the dam would burst (or I would give it a helping hand) and gallons and gallons of water would rush down the beach sweeping away small children’s tiny castles and ponds. Howls of fury from the tinies rent the air and parents came running to the rescue. When I was reprimanded for my thoughtlessness or, heaven forbid, unkindness, I would adopt an attitude of innocent protestation and claim that we were just unable to contain the water within our very large dam any longer. How could I possibly be blamed?

Just the other day Elizabeth reminded me about a large concrete rock, which jutted out of the seabed where the pebble beach met the sand. It was probably built during the war, possibly the base of an anti-aircraft gun, but here was this lovely rock upon which one could clamber and when the tide was right, it was a great place to leap from into the water. The side of the rock facing the shore was only about half a metre high, whereas the opposite was a couple of metres or more. It was a great kid’s adventure playground though caution was needed; when the tide was coming in there was a possibility of being stranded there. One day at the beach I was playing on the rock and the tide slowly inched its way inland. The sea had turned choppy and I was the only one left on the rock, which was now surrounded by water. The Cullen children were shouting for me to return to the shore and were waving frantically but I was not particularly concerned although there was quite a swell to the waves. Then I noticed that standing on the edge of the cliff a small line of people had congregated and were watching, clearly interested to see what I would do. Being a terrible little show-off, I waited until a particularly large wave swept towards the shore and as it swirled around below me I pushed myself away from the rock and onto the crest of the water and was swept safely onto the shore. Bliss. Loved it.

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Mother was terrified of snakes. To a lesser extent, so was I. One day at the start of my teens, Michael Hopper was unable to play, so I suggested to mother that she might enjoy a walk over the downs to where we had found a pond nestling in a valley a mile or so towards Eastbourne. What was so wondrous about this discovery was that Michael and I had found an unusual black newt, which was flatter than the common variety and had yellow spots on its underbelly. We thought that this reptile was some sort of salamander. This very name sent shivers of excitement down our spines as it conjured up further exotic creatures usually found closer to the tropics. We called this pool, the Salamander Pond. Of course, I had told mother all about it and she was mildly curious, and on one occasion after a visit when I had captured a rather good specimen, Michael and I carried it back to Albourne to show everyone.

So one rather hot summer’s afternoon mum and I set off, first walking up the horse-field, passing a small woodland called the Shawl on our left. Here, well away from people, the grass was immaculately cropped by the rabbits, which constantly nibbled and then promptly fled into their underground tunnels the minute a human appeared over the horizon. There were tens of thousands of rabbits in those days, before the government tried to eliminate them by introducing the deadly disease myxamatosis (not sure of this spelling). All the way to the pond, mother and I chatted happily and indeed upon arrival a couple of salamanders were visible lurking in the mud below the surface of the water. There were lots of water boatmen skidding over the surface and we spotted a couple of electric-blue dragonflies hovering over the pool. After about a quarter-of-an-hour relaxing, watching the insects and birds, we decided to walk a different way back over the hills to the valley of East Dean. Mother was clearly enjoying herself and feeling privileged to share my adventure. We were making our way over a substantial field, which the previous year had probably been ploughed for wheat and had been left fallow to recover for a year or so. The grass and weeds were quite long and grew in uneven patches when suddenly I thought I saw a movement.

Mum, stop, I whispered.

What is it, dear?

I think it’s a snake, I replied hesitantly.

Oh, my God, muttered poor mum, as she froze.

The two of us stood there rooted to the spot, as the gentle breeze caught the grasses and weeds surrounding us. We must have stayed in that position for many a minute, wondering what on earth to do as a couple of butterflies fluttered by. We were at least a hundred feet away from the edge of the field, where the short, cropped grass was clear to see, tantalisingly safe.

Do we run for it, mum? What do you think?

Darling, I just don’t know, she wailed in response, but I couldn’t run. I couldn’t.

Poor mum. I felt so guilty. Had I really seen a snake? Perhaps not.

Mum, I’m sure, honestly, I’m certain that what I saw was not a snake. It was only the breeze in the grass. I know it was. Please mum, don’t be frightened.

I was now panicking as I realised that mother was truly suffering in a horrible way and was terrified.

Just follow me, mum. I announced trying to sound very confident. I’ll lead the way and you follow exactly in my tracks. I’ll make a lot of noise and stamp heavily because I know, I absolutely know that snakes are more frightened of us than we are of them.

Yes, dear, she whispered, as she took my hand and I led her towards the safety of the open downland and home.

I cannot remember mother accompanying me again on one of my countryside adventures. Poor darling, it took her ages to get over that afternoon.

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Every year The East Dean Players put on a show in the Bardolph Hall at Birling Manor, usually an Agatha Christie ‘whodunnit’ or one of the popular classics. Kris’s aunt Una was always involved in this annual theatrical event, as she was responsible for the make-up and indeed was the proud owner of a large box filled with dozens of sticks of professional, Leichner stage-greasepaint and pancake base. She was considered a very good make-up artist, though her players looked quite frightful close up after she had applied her stuff. However, in the spotlight the effect was really quite reasonable albeit in a rather theatrical way. If we were at East Dean at that time of year we were regulars in the audience and thoroughly enjoyed their efforts. It did rather remind me of my own early attempts at Oakfield School when I was about nine years old but I was more than thankful to be on the audience side of the curtain this time around. Mother too, I think, much as she loved amateur dramatics was also reminded of her own early thwarted ambitions.

Also in the Bardolph Hall, Birling Manor hosted an annual Barn Dance which was really just an energetic country dance-about. One year I remember dancing non-stop with either Kris, mother or Una as my partner. We danced all the old-fashioned numbers, the Veleta, Quick Step, Foxtrot, Waltz, Military-two-step, Gay Gordons, Paul Jones and more. I think I was even asked to dance by a stranger. I just loved it.

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Mrs. King-Farlow was the mother of a fellow pupil of my brother at Westminster School. Tony vaguely knew the boy but they were not friends. The King-Farlows owned a white, single-storey clapboard house with a veranda which ran the length of the façade. It was situated at Birling Gap, by the coast-road just north of the coastguard cottages. I always thought the house was very stylish and I believe it was only used as a holiday home, as was Albourne. What distinguishes Mrs. King-Farlow in my memory was, that come rain or shine she always wore long artificial eyelashes and a lot of make-up. I suppose she was roughly the same age as mother but there the similarity stopped. Occasionally, we would find her at Kennedy’s, the fruit and vegetable shop in South Street, Eastbourne. Mr. Kennedy always tried to serve both mum and Mrs. King-Farlow personally, referring to them formally as Mrs. Quiney and Mrs. King-Farlow and he gave the impression of picking the best of his produce for both ladies. Mother was always accommodating and essentially took what she was given but Mrs. K-F would inspect every item meticulously, peering at it closely and very intently. I would watch fascinated. How on earth she could see what she was looking at wearing all that heavy mascara and three-quarter-inch lashes, heaven knows. The two ladies would always acknowledge each other but Mrs K-F was taller and broader than mother and looking down imperiously she appeared to me as a blend of a grand opera diva and a dragon. I don’t think mother quite liked Mrs King-Farlow.

Many years later the house, after years of neglect and a mysterious fire which destroyed much of it, became a rotting eyesore until finally the remains were torn down and removed. Heaven knows why it was not rebuilt but maybe a lease with the National Trust expired and was not renewed for whatever reason. Today there is no sign that this lovely property ever existed except that every spring where the garden once was thousands of daffodils come into bloom and are quietly spreading up the hill. It is such a joyful sight.

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I cannot remember when I first helped mother with her hair, but help I did and was very soon applying Toni home-perms to her straight hair to give it more body, winding her hair onto rollers, and finally brushing it out and styling it. Ending with a good spray of Elnet hair lacquer. I would think I was about sixteen and if ever there was reason to doubt my sexuality it should have been obvious to all, by then, that I was growing up as a gay boy. I can only conclude that my relationships with Kris, Susan, Livia, Myra and Pat simply blinded everyone to the truth, or perhaps gave those who were suspicious the excuse to push such thoughts to the back of their minds. The boy’s straight, just look at his girlfriends! It seems inconceivable today that in the mid nineteen-fifties such a subject as homosexuality simply was not discussed, whatever suspicions may have existed. Anyway, I recall that mother’s regular hairdresser, who owned a local salon - named something like Marcel high class salon de coiffure - was so impressed by my efforts that he told mum that if ever I wanted to enter the hairdressing business he would give me a job on the spot. I was flattered by the man’s offer, firstly because I knew perfectly well that I did not want to be a hairdresser, and secondly if I did it would not be working in a suburban one. Possibly Chelsea, but nothing less.

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Before I bought my scooter, I traveled to the City by rail from Streatham to Blackfriars. One day the system was closed due to a strike. In the ‘sixties, strikes were becoming more and more common as workers realized their power and had become used to the better post-war conditions. Now, understandably, they wanted more of the good life which was beginning to filter into society, albeit not at the pace that the unions wanted for their workers. So, as an alternative, I took the underground from Blackfriars, connecting with the Northern line, traveling south to Balham, where I planned to walk the couple of miles to our house in Streatham.

It was unusual for me to travel by tube unless I was in central London, mainly because the system only had the one line which serviced south of the river Thames and did not go where I wanted. Little had changed to the Northern line since it was built and the escalators were still made of wooden slats and the lifts looked like giant steel-mesh bird cages which were hauled up and down filthy tunnels which were caked with soot. The whole underground system had a unique smell of its own - a mixture of soot and electricity – and I have to admit, that in a strange way, I found the odour rather sexy. Why? Heaven knows.

Being the height of rush-hour, the tube was heaving with bodies as I squeezed myself onto the required train for Balham. The atmosphere inside the compartment no longer smelled of soot and electricity but, by today’s standards, stank of cigarette smoke, both stale and newly created, as smoking everywhere was normal in those days. The doors closed and the train jerked into action and finally sped off. It had been raining and now, in the close confines of the carriage, the wet coats began to dry and this smell joined the atmosphere. I was standing in a crush close to the doors and as our train lurched and swayed all the standing passengers moved as one. We were totally coordinated and I clung to the overhead leather strap for dear life.

Suddenly I was aware of a gentle rubbing on my crotch and naturally became excited. Was this going to be the start of an adventure?

I did not wish to draw attention to myself, so I took my time before diverting my gaze from the advertisement which was extolling the sexiness of Kayser-Bonder, nylon stockings as worn by the Hollywood film star, Rita Hayworth. I then surreptitiously glanced at my traveling companions to try to calculate which one might be my admirer. My immediate neighbour was a plump middleaged matron with a large beak of a nose which protruded above small, painted-purple lips,. She seemed engrossed, awkwardly reading her book which she clutched, holding it up and away from the person pressed against her, who was a typical City gentleman dressed in the full gear of black overcoat and bowler hat. Like me he had been staring at the voluptuous Rita Hayworth, clearly admiring her long, stocking-ed legs. I could not see much of who was directly behind me, although I had a memory of a young woman getting onto the train, who was quite smartly dressed, and was probably from a typist pool. I could occasionally see her and her blurred reflection in the dirty glass of the carriage. She was smoking a cigarette which had the imprint of her orange lipstick around the cork filter-tip and she was paying great attention to see that she did not stab anyone with it between puffs. Another close neighbour was a rather plain, balding man and, from what I could see quite slim, of medium height. He had scraped his thinning, and suspiciously, black hair across his pate in a failed attempt to make more of what he had. I very much hoped that none of these people were responsible for the gentle action that continued to rub against my crutch. Suddenly, with a screech of brakes, the train slowed to a halt and the doors slid open. Our compartment was so full that no new passengers could get on and no-one got off. However, we all shifted about a bit before we were off again and back into the darkness of the tunnel. The exciting action down below had now stopped, which was something of a relief as I had had a moment to look around more freely, and there was really only one young man that looked interesting as far as a sexual encounter was concerned and he seemed too far away to be the culprit. The train rumbled on and we stopped at another couple of stations, where a few people got off and few more took their place. My immediate traveling companions remained as before, but I did notice that the young man was now squeezed quite close to me and then the rubbing at my crotch started all over again.

I glanced at the young man but he did not meet my eye so I looked away. I began to ponder what action might now take place. Was I doing anything that evening? Could I be late home? Did I really fancy the man anyway? Questions, questions. I found the whole episode very erotic and exciting and was truly turned on, but I did I really want to go home with his man? All these thoughts were whirring around in my head, when the action below stopped as the train slowed and came to a halt. We were now at Clapham Common station and many people began to manoeuvre themselves to get off the train and I found myself shuffling about to enable others to pass.

The City gent adjusted his bowler hat and left, the young man, surprisingly, took hold of the arm of the girl from the typing pool and helped her off the train chatting away and clearly relieved to be out of the scrum. The bank clerk with the thinning hair, for I was sure by now that that was his job also shuffled off the train and those of us that were left re-arranged our positions, at last freed of the confines of the crowd. The plump lady with the large nose and purple lips edged away and lowered her book, clearly enjoying her new-found freedom to read more easily and I was now standing alone hiding an erection under my navy-blue, belted raincoat wandering what on earth all that had been about. Then I saw the culprit. Dangling from the crook of the plump woman’s arm was a folded umbrella and in a moment of shock I realized that I had been groped by it for the better part of the journey from London Bridge to Elephant & Castle.

Well, I thought to myself. A gay boy has to get his kicks as and when he can.

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When I was seventeen and booking my first holiday at La Capucine in Cap d’Antibes, my initial enquiry had led to a response advising me that all the bedrooms in the house had been taken but they could offer me La Cave which had the advantage of its own entrance in the garden and I could come and go as I pleased. Apparently it was very simply furnished. When I replied, which I did promptly, I wrote saying that this arrangement would be fine as my needs were simple. Of course my letters were in schoolboy French and apparently, or so I discovered later, my response had been greeted with shrieks of laughter because I had written matelot instead of matelas. It took me a few seconds to realise that I had replied by saying that I was perfectly happy to sleep on a sailor, when I meant to say that I was perfectly happy to sleep on a mattress!

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One year The National Association of Paper Merchants decided to hold their annual dance at The Royal Festival Hall where the number-one bandleader of the day, Victor Sylvester, would be the conductor. He was also very well known for owning a chain of studios where ballroom dancing was taught. The evening in question was another dressy affair and we were all dolled up to the nines with Kris accompanying me as my partner. Kris however was not exuding her usual enthusiasm and clearly found the whole affair pretty dull. Ballroom dancing did not feature high on her list of favourites, and I have to say the same was true for me. What we excelled at and loved was jiving. So after about half-an-hour of formal dances, Kris had had enough and either she or I, at her persuasion, walked over to Mr. Sylvester and requested some rock’n’roll. He clearly wasn’t pleased. However, just when we had given up all hope of enjoying a jive, the band played an Elvis Presley hit of the day. The reaction was instant and almost immediately the floor filled with couples enthusiastically jiving. Poor Mr. S then had absolutely no choice but to continue with dance music of a similar vein. I should add that rock’n’roll was considered rather déclassé and just not quite appropriate in those days and its arrival on the dance scene heralded the decline in Mr Victor Silvester’s popularity.

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My girl friend Pat Pepper was a passionate fan of Johnnie Ray, the American crooner who shot to fame when he sang a song called Cry. And cry he did. Johnnie was tall, slim and handsome as hell, exuding a strong sexuality. He had a powerful, rich voice, full of emotion, and the girls adored him. His fan club was huge as was his following on both sides of the Atlantic. Dear Pat had bought tickets for the two of us to see him perform at the London Palladium. These were tickets that sold out within hours of the box-office opening on the first day and she had queued for ages to get them. Thankfully she worked fairly close to the theatre at the Air France office in Regent Street.

It was a wonderful show and the audience went wild over Johnnie Ray who was quite superb. Afterwards, out in the street his fans mobbed him, many screaming and weeping with pent-up sexual desire and some even fainting with frustration. What a performance.

Little did those poor girls realise that their idol was gay and went home to The Savoy Hotel where he partied to the small hours with sailors and rent-boys. But the world was innocent in those days.

Just a tiny aside – in my first memoir I spelled his name with a y (instead of ie). The reason for this error was that not being sure myself I took the spelling of his name from the entry in Halliwell’s Film Guide of There’s No Business Like Show Business, a movie in which he starred. Pat phoned me after she received a copy of A Cock-Eyed Optimist telling me that I had misspelled his name and to prove her point suggested that I check the spelling from a CD of his music. I did and Pat was proved correct. I should write and tell Mr Halliwell but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it wasn’t the mistake of the publicity department at Twentieth Century Fox, who frequently had little respect for some of their stars in those