The truth about cruising, crocuses, and c-words

Park life.

Spot the crocuses. [Pic: Me, a week ago.]

See previous MOOD RING posts

CROCUS

I’m lucky, for the time being, to live close to two parks. I was never a park loiterer before. It made sense to me if you had a dog, or child, or were cottaging, but I never fancied endless tours around a splodge of green, among the kind of people who’d report their window cleaner to trading standards for not changing his bucket water enough. Spending the Covid era stuck in a flat with no outdoor space changed all that.

Once we moved, mid-pandemic, to my lovely, bright flat with its little balcony, I understood the urge to be outside. My favourite park is the smaller of the two. Rather than the main road scarring one side of its larger neighbour, this park is hemmed in by houses, giving depth and warmth to the sights and sounds within. It feels safe, a secret. I see countless dogs and their owners, and the other day I saw a group of nursery age children in head-to-toe waterproofs hopping into sludgy puddles for perhaps the first time.

There’s been a lot going on lately, so my thirty minutes or so doing circuits and focusing on the flowers reawakening and trees remembering who they really are has helped. The crocuses are nearing the end of their reign – say ‘croci’ if you wish, but please don’t write in when I don’t – and every year I forget what an exciting tease they are for imminent spring and summer colours. Crocuses and daffodils are a little promise, an IOU from warmer, brighter times to remind you something better is on its way.

Crocuses in particular are wilful in their shyness, barely peeping over grass left to wild over winter. Purples, yellows, and whites are peppered throughout the park, not so much vibrant as hopeful – not gaudy, but cheerful.

I’m not the only person to be captivated by them. It seemed that every day the other week, I spotted women – different ones – taking photographs of the crocuses in both neighbourhood parks. Never men, I noticed. Shame. A crocus’s understated beauty is hard to capture, especially with overly forensic phone cameras that flatten the light. I only glanced at the women as I walked by – no staring, it’s not cool to gawk at women in public, even if you are a gay man, everyone deserves peace while they commune with nature. But I did notice the force of their concentration, aware of the limitations of their camera and perhaps their own skill, but giving it a go anyway. It was nice. The crocuses deserved the attention.

One woman I saw seemed to overthink it, sadly. Unsatisfied with the shots she’d already taken, she attempted to rearrange herself and slipped, crushing a notable number of our fragile spring friends beneath her. Such is the crocus’s lot – if you don’t get savaged by a rat or urinated on by a dog, a well-meaning cataloguer of your charm will lose their balance and pulverise you. Better luck next year.

MOOD: Squished

CRUISING

Speaking of parks: there are many days I wish George Michael were still around. His Christmastime death in the relentless celebrity mortality sweepstake of 2016 still ranks as one of the saddest and most unjust. Provoking a ‘George would’ve loved this’ tear to my eye this week is news that belligerent, well-heeled dog walkers on Hampstead Heath have launched a guerrilla campaign to oust the ancient parkland’s infamous cruising community.

The concerned citizens are pinning up hostile notices around the Heath’s most active anonymous hookup hotspots demanding that rather than stalk the grassy hillocks searching for hungry mouths, lusty gay men should instead consult their smartphones’ glut of mucky apps and their deathless grids of vibeless ‘meet now’ drones.

The rainbow crew’s response to this attempted coup has been characteristically low-key: mobilising for a so-called “sodomites’ march”; mooning at attending coppers; and posing for Insta photos draped over a popular assignation point known as the “f•ck tree”. Prominent placard slogans include “Take me to the f•ck tree” and, deliciously, “Release the pups”. There’s not much you can teach this crew about keeping an unruly canine on a taut leash.

I have no opinion on the concept of cruising – “oh, okay, good for them” is my default response to most things like this, because life passes in the mere burp of a fruitfly – but there’s no doubt the pop icon and esteemed A-gay George Michael would’ve been all over this uprising. George was famously arrested – and subsequently outed – in 1998 for sampling the delights of outdoor activity in an LA public loo, and continued to nip up to the Heath now and again for some “fast love” before his untimely death. (What did you think the song was about? Truly?)

George’s view was that cruising was part of his culture, and in 2012 he even phoned in to Richard and Judy to defend an afternoon dalliance up the Heath with what the press delightedly called “a pot-bellied van driver”. ‘I've no idea who that guy was,’ trilled a cheery George as Judy’s eyes slinkied right out of her head, “but thank you very much.”

I like to think Yog would’ve been front and centre of the current contretemps, flying the flag, waving banners in the faces of the emboldened puritans, and possibly even holding a benefit gig from the f•ck tree. And the protest chant? ‘We Shall Overcum’, perhaps.

MOOD: Cruising for a bruising

POSH

I’m no stranger to being heckled in the street. When it happens, it’s rarely a compliment and frequently homophobic, but usually I’m far enough away that I can pretend I haven’t heard. To make it easier for them to get bored and move on, I try not to show fear, or disappointment, or sadness in my gait as I walk on. Sometimes, though, my knee gives away slightly and it’s a reminder that sticks and stones do not have an exclusive as weaponry.

What I never, ever do is respond. When I have previously, it’s ended badly and left me devoid of satisfaction. So when I saw a young guy, at nine-thirty Sunday morning, swaying and spitting in the gutter on a street corner not far from my house, my stomach may have leapt, my fingers may have tensed inside my gloves, but outwardly I was an iceberg drifting by, innocently, nothing to see here.

I’d been having a lovely morning. It was crisp and sunny and I got up and went in search for pastries, via a circuit or two of my second-favourite park. Being out early makes me feel like I’ve achieved something, that if nothing else good happens that day then at least I have that, I did that; I left the house and participated in society.

The young man – not just drunk, but f•cked – spun slowly in a circle as I approached, eyes scanning me. I gripped the small bag of pain-chocs a little tighter and looked straight ahead.

‘Helloooooo,’ he said, with an undertone of vinegar. ‘Holaaaaa, mi amigo. Hola.’

He was blond, with blue eyes, with a rouged, baked ham complexion, and his Spanish accent was nonexistent, so I assumed he wasn’t speaking in his native tongue. He was a hazy approximation of handsome – hard to tell, sometimes they’re just young – but I didn't get gay vibes. He was at the tail-end of a big night, but he was in clean clothes and well groomed so had likely just left a party or something.

Wearing my headphones, I thought I could get away with a barely perceptible nod, glancing at him as I passed only to make sure he didn't spit at me or hit me with something. He was not happy to be ignored, and told me to go f•ck myself, elaborating further that I was a ‘posh c•nt’. I could’ve stopped to ask him to show his workings – I was in tracksuit bottoms, a green Uniqlo puffer jacket, a beanie and my oldest surviving spectacles, not exactly cruising by in the Gold State Coach – but thought it best to move on, so he could forget me quicker.

I was both amused and incensed. Amused because, well, while I may be a c•nt, I’m definitely not posh, but also furious because… why do wasted men – any men – feel a divine right to have anyone they choose reply to them, whether they want to or not? Why ruin my morning just because yours isn’t going as you’d hoped?

Some people expect to be heard, no matter what they say; they believe the floor should be ceded to them, that they should have the mic, and that when they bang a drum, you should move to it. And when they don’t… watch out. This is what’s currently going on in the news, with the culture wars and the state of everything. Selfish pricks for whom 98% of uninterrupted airtime and attention simply isn’t enough. They don’t want to wait their turn.

Anyway, I hope he vomited over himself on the Tube home.

MOOD: Common

GUARDIAN BLIND DATE

I reviewed the Blind Date for the sixth week running; I can’t remember the last time I had such a long streak. This week it was two guys and they got on very well. READ NOW

ONE-LINER

As regular readers will know, every week I post one line from my current book LEADING MAN, which is out in paperback in about a month’s time, in an effort to drum up preorders. One reader has told me it worked, so I take that as a win. If you would like to further validate me, then please join them by getting the book from your preferred retailer, or one of these: Bookshop.org | Amazon | Waterstones

Illicit drinks ten floors up while the city breathes and boozes and f•cks all around you in the dark; it sounded quite hot.

There you go. Remember, preorders are godly.

Thank you for reading.