New York City, 1999

"Are you okay?"

Chris was sitting bolt upright, in the hotel bed opposite, counting on his fingers.

"I've been up for ages."

"How come?"

"I'm trying to work out how we leave Miami today, fly to New York, then take an eight hour flight to Manchester and arrive home yesterday. What time zone are we in again?"

I frowned in concentration, counted on my fingers then replied, "Oh shit Chris. I think we might have missed our flight."

We didn't know it then but missing our flight back to the UK was the least of our worries.

The holiday had started with mixed fortunes. Two days before flying to New York, Chris had been made redundant and relieved of his duties. His boss had taken the decision to remove all the heads of music, of which Chris was one, from across the group and replace them with his boyfriend, who despite him having no discernible experience in the radio industry, he felt was well suited to take a senior group position. 

"It's a business decision," he'd said to Chris, his knee visibly shaking under the desk as he delivered the news. Of course it was. 

As I was heading into work that lunchtime, to wrap things up ahead of our holiday, Chris was leaving the building with a box of belongings . Until that day, we had worked at the same radio station, Chris was head of music, I was head of research. 

This wasn't going to be awkward at all, my partner of three years losing his job, in a grand example of nepotism, and me continuing to be employed by the company with all the expectations of integrity and loyalty that go with it. I could continue to be professional – if I wanted to – as it turned out, I didn’t.

Cut to Manchester Airport – 21st April 1999 – check in. A few weeks earlier someone had suggested a surefire way of getting an upgrade on a flight so we'd arrived smartly dressed, looking respectable, script learned. Chris's opening line, as he passed his paperwork to the woman at the Continental Airlines desk was well rehearsed.

"Good morning fine lady," he didn't really say fine lady, but it sounded like he should. "If you're considering upgrading anyone today we'd be very happy to accept."

We both grinned inanely at the woman, our overly enthusiastic smiles laced with looks of desperate pleading.

"You what?" She didn't even look up at us.

Chris cleared his throat and enunciated, slowly, "If you're considering upgrading anyone today we'd be very happy to accept."

"Sorry love, no upgrades today. Passports please," she sucked her teeth and finally made eye contact.

We curled our lips at each other and shrugged, the realisation dawning that we'd have to sit on a plane in smart but uncomfortable clothes for eight hours until we landed at Newark.

Checked in and luggage deposited we headed for security and the shops. This being 1999, and pre-9-11, security meant having your suitcase x-rayed, walking through a metal detector arch and, if you were lucky, getting a quick pat-down from a security guard a la Diana Ross. Even then, Ms Ross's life altering ordeal at Heathrow was nearly six months in the future. It wasn't the heyday of flying by any means but it was far easier than it is today.

Scanned, beeped and well patted, we headed for Duty Free, that esteemed institution that in April 1999 had a mere two months lifespan remaining and was gasping for dear life on the last of the cheap fags while swigging one last bottle of cut price brandy.

Chris gets carried away at airports; he sees an opportunity to stock up on perfume and voddy and takes it. Unlike many Brits he doesn't care for an early morning pint and has no interest in browsing reading material for the flight, no, he wants to shop till he drops, walking out laden with the latest goodies from Tom Ford or Calvin Klein, and so a mammoth expedition got underway. 

Chris sees airport shopping as a challenge to get as much out of the staff as he possibly can, whether that be discounts or free samples. I've seen him get on a plane with a Givenchy sports bag containing not only his shopping but hundreds of tiny packets of testers, a pair of socks, a travel blanket, flip flops and bottles of branded mineral water before now. 

While eschewing the aforementioned pint, Chris, when on his tour of duty (free) is always sure to take advantage of the alcohol tasting stands. It doesn't matter what time of day it is, if there's a thimble of whiskey or a snifter of gin going free, he's having it. He has the routine down to a fine art. Spying his prey from a distance he casually approaches, as if he's not onto a sure thing, and begins his patter:

"May I try some?"

"Of course, would you like to try the standard, the lemon or the summer berries?"

"Lemon please."

Chris sips the illicit nectar, it hits the spot, you can tell by the glimmer in his eye.

"Richard! Come and try this."

I traipse over, sullen.

"Hello," I offer the assistant a knowing shrug. "Thank you, I'll try the lemon too."

"Ooh, this is delicious. I can see us having this before a dinner party," Chris will coo.

"Urgh," is my usual grunted response. "Are we done?"

"I might just try..." he turns to the assistant. "What's the summer berries one like?"

"Fruity. Would you like to try some?"

"Is that okay?" Chris won't be seen asking for more booze at 7am but if he's offered it, that's a different matter altogether

This merry dance continues until Chris has tried everything on the stand at which point he'll ask in elevated tones, "And where can I buy this marvellous product fine sir?" (Again, the ‘fine sir’ is more of an attitude than a quote.)

The assistant will point to the large display of bottles next to him, Chris will feign surprise then in a stage voice highlight to me what a reasonable price it is. Grabbing one and sticking it in his drag-behind-you shopping basket, he'll thank the member of staff profusely and go on about his business. 

Within three minutes of leaving the free drinks behind, the bottle of fancy booze will be stuffed in amongst some overpriced teddy bears or abandoned with the sunglasses, and replaced with a litre of the standard brand at half the price. I've watched these interactions at airports around the world and it never changes.

On the morning in question we were just coming out of the shop, stinking to high heaven from the concoction of perfumes we've tried on with the false pretence of buying them, with our shopping in hand, when we heard our names being announced on the tannoy.

If you're at an airport and you hear your names being called then you know something is wrong. What had happened? Had we inadvertently stolen something? Had the machetes and bomb blueprints in our suitcases finally been discovered? Had the authorities been alerted to the child trafficking? No – we were late for the aeroplane.

"Will passengers Buckley and Douglas please make their way to gate 22 for boarding. This is your final call, the gate is closing."

In unison, "Shit!" 

We legged it for the gate. We ran along the concourse, doing double speed on the moving walkways, practically jumped down a set of steps, past the loos which Chris considered stopping at before I yelled at him, then up another lot of stairs and finally arrived at gate 22.

"We're here!" I wheezed. "Let us on! Please!"

"You're lucky. We were about to take your luggage off." They weren't, airline staff are liars, it's all a power trip.

"Here! TAke them!" I thrust our boarding cards into the woman's hand.

She looked at the cardboard tickets, then at a clipboard next to her, then back at us. After a visible hesitation and a secretive word with a colleague she finally turned to us and said, "I'll just need to print new boarding cards. Your seats have been changed."

Chris's hackles were raised. "What do you mean? We've booked those seats!"

"Shut up will you! They won't let us on."

"I'm not having..."

"Chris just be quiet!"

"These are your new boarding cards, you'll be in seats 4A and 4B." The Continental Airlines representative was suddenly all smiles. "Please make your way along the jetway and turn left when you get on the aircraft."

We set off down the tunnel to the aeroplane scrabbling with each other like children.

"What did she say?"

"I don't know."

"She said turn left, what does that mean?"

"I don't know, hurry up!"

"If we've been given shit seats I'm going to brain them!"

"Just shush! We're here."

We composed ourselves, and stepped through the door onto the Boeing.

"This way please sir." The assistant indicated the front of the plane.

And with that we were directed into Business First. Chris was practically squealing with glee and immediately turned into the modern day equivalent of a medieval princess, bowing to people and announcing 'Good day kind Sir' and such. (I don’t need to mention the Sir thing again do I?)

We took our seats, the stewardess offering to put our hand luggage and coats in the cloakroom – who knew such wonders existed on an aeroplane? – before asking if we'd like a glass of champagne.

"Why yes, fine lady. That would be simply exquisite," said Chris.

As soon as she left us we descended into childish giggles and 'Oh my Gods!' and ‘What just happeneds?’ before immediately beginning to play around with the gadgets you didn't get in standard class. At that moment we decided we'd only ever fly First Class from now on. Our social status had been elevated and with it we had become more important than everyone we knew. We'd have to get new friends now and move far away from our families for fear we might be associated with them.

The woman returned with our glasses of champagne and we composed ourselves. 

"Can I help you with anything? Do you know how to use the TV?"

Chris put on his best 'this isn't our first time' voice and declined her offer of help with a deep bow of the head and a dramatic swish of the arm. Ten minutes later we had to call her back.

"Remind me fair maiden, how dost one retrieve thine television set from the arm of one's chair?"

I think the cabin crew suspected we'd only ever flown in the back of the plane before and most of them were very accommodating. The Cabin Crew Manager was even good enough to give us a couple of bottles of wine which they'd opened but not used, as we got off the aircraft in America.

The only negative on the flight was one member of cabin crew who was rude to me when I confided our secret in her. 

"Excuse me, I'd ordered a vegetarian meal but we've since changed seats. Is there any chance..."

She looked down at me, both literally and figuratively, and with a flare of her nostrils said, "No. Your meal's back there," and flung a thumb over her shoulder towards our old seats before marching off. 

It was fine though, I complained about her attitude to the woman who eventually gave us the bottles of wine. She sorted me out with something to eat, and ejected her colleague out of the aircraft at 32,000 feet.

Me with the magnificent Manhattan skyline

We spent the first week of our holiday in New York City before flying down to Miami and the Florida Keys for the remainder. While in the Big Apple for the first time we took it upon ourselves to visit every single tourist trap we’d ever heard of.

We began with a round trip on a ferry to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, unfortunately though, we somehow messed it up. 

Lady Liberty as we sailed away 

Ellis Island was very interesting – in the way a museum is interesting next to a theme park – but what we really wanted to do was see Lady Liberty up close. It wasn’t until we were on the second ferry and Liberty Island, with its famous resident, was gradually, but surely, getting smaller, that we realised we’d messed up and got on the wrong boat. If only we’d have known then that this was to be a harbinger of things to come, maybe we’d have been more careful in Miami a fortnight later.

Chris in his consolation tourist crown

I don’t even know how we managed it, now I think about it, it’s a one way route taking in both islands, and it’s pretty difficult to mess it up. Anyway, the Statue of Liberty looked pretty grand from a distance and we consoled ourselves by buying foam crowns and postcards from the hawkers back at Battery Park when we alighted.

Undeterred we continued our day of sightseeing. We headed for Midtown to visit the Flatiron building and coo at its unusual shape, we went to the Chrysler Building to take in its deco delights and we obliged the gods of tourism by taking in the Empire State Building, where of course we visited the viewing deck and looked out across Manhattan to where the Statue of Liberty stood on her plinth in New York Bay, smirking at us and waving her torch in defiance.

It turns out that a week in New York City is a long time when you’re a tourist and it’s possible to run out of things to do. That being said we managed to fill our time fairly well with a mixture of sightseeing, shopping and drinking. 

We went to the twin towers of the World Trade Center on two separate occasions. The first to have cocktails in the Windows On The World bar in the North Tower – aka The Greatest Bar On Earth – where after checking in our coats on the ground floor and travelling in the ear-poppingly fast lift to the 107th, Chris realised he’d left his cigarettes in his jacket downstairs thus triggering the first moment of realisation about how unfair and ill-timed his redundancy had been. I ordered drinks while he went to retrieve his menthols and by the time he returned Chris was livid and actively wishing the early demise of his former friend and boss, the hatchet man, not only for his actions but for doing it a day before we went on holiday.

On the second trip to the World Trade Center, later that week, Chris was slightly less furious. This time we visited the Top of the World observation deck on the 107th floor of the South Tower. We had our small change mangled and imprinted with a friendly message by a machine which charged us ten dollars for the privilege and gazed across the bay to where a certain green statue stared back, blank and smug.

I remember standing on a railing and leaning our heads against the glass, amazed and feeling slightly sick by the distance to the ground below. I can’t even begin to comprehend what it felt like for those poor souls that two years later made the choice (if you can call it that) to leap from that height, beaten back by flames from an exploded Boeing 767.

Oblivious as to the impending future of the World Trade Center, New York City and indeed the world, we went on to spend a wonderful afternoon in Central Park admiring the roller skaters’ balancing skills and going to say hello to the penguins in the zoo. We then spent an hour or so browsing FAO Schwarz, the world’s biggest toy shop, which back then was situated on Fifth Avenue, near the corner of the park. I must admit to loitering a little too long in the Barbie shop, not because I had a particular fascination with the plastic princess but simply because it was a separate store, within a store, with its own street entrance, and I got a little bit confused. We eventually left the emporium with a box of Milleniumopoly and a shiny, steel slinky, important finds I’d say.

As Chris and I were both radio folk at the time, I’d hatched a little plan back in Manchester to see what American radio was all about. I’d been on an internet message board, left my calling card – English man in New York – and secured us a trip to Jammin 105 which was located on the 18th floor of a building on 6th Avenue. This was when I saw Chris’s recent redundancy experience overflow for the second time as he cursed the bastards back in London to the bemused Music Director who was showing us around. 

Jammin 105 was strange to us in the late 90s. British radio was a lively, creative place back then, our station was bustling and fun. In comparison this one was soulless, situated as it was in a corporate style office with glass partitions and carpet tiles, and where we saw only two people. Their presenters, it was revealed, were stationed at home studios in different states across the country and would often broadcast on more than one station. The United States’ geography allowed for this as it was unlikely that a small radio station in New York would clash with say one in San Francisco or Salt Lake City. Looking back now it seems that, as with commercial, format radio before it, the UK was destined to follow in the footsteps of America, removing people and rationalising resources, as a way to improve the bottom line.

Our holiday continued with a dash through Times Square where we attempted to take photographs of a group of grumpy police officers; a stroll around Washington Square Park where we met lots of lesbians congregating for some reason with their lap dogs – each of them dressed preposterously in strange garb. The dogs not the lesbians. 

Bustling Coney Island boardwalk

Part way through the week we took the subway all the way to the end of the line in Brooklyn because I had somehow become obsessed with Coney Island. It was lovely and everything but this being April, and Coney Island essentially being a seaside town, everything was shut. No fairground, no cotton candy, no Diana Ross and Michael Jackson Easing on down the road.

Coney Island funfair, closed

When we returned to Manhattan later that day we stumbled upon a Sikh procession which Chris was thrilled by because they were offering free food to passers-by. I couldn’t tell you what the celebration was about but the food was delicious. 

Naturally we tried a number of bars during our trip including the famous Stonewall Inn, renowned for being the birth place of the American struggle for gay rights, where fellow drinkers marvelled that Chris and I had been a couple for as long as four whole years. We celebrated this with copious amounts of beer and a singalong to high energy mixes of Toni Braxton and other such hits of the day, before heading for The Monster, a gay club across the road. 

We were reliably informed that The Monster was another Manhattan institution and we’d been assured we could continue singing to show tunes around a piano – music to Chris’s ears. Once settled and with drinks in hand, I left Chris trying to work out the lyrics to Somewhere That’s Green from the Little Shop Of Horrors while I went to find the loo. He eventually had to come and find me when, while trying to locate the gents, I’d inadvertently wandered into the basement club and was bumbling about in what appeared to be a gay, Hispanic, hip hop night. I was very popular, a British accent used to do that in New York.

I forget the other places I remember – if that makes sense. I have vague memories of a place called G Bar or G Club or G Spot (but it was a long time ago and I didn’t write it down) and another basement club in a long room where I had a dance off with three locals who were very impressed by my moves, I’ll have you know. I seem to remember us being taken to a swanky hotel bar one night, one of those where you have to know where you’re going and it’s literally a door with no signage, on an unassuming street. I remember another long room with high ceilings and steps, all down one side, which we sat on and quaffed our drinks. I recall with horror their cocktail menu with a dreadful concoction called a cunt-pump listed on it. This delightful beverage was a vodka based drink with tomato juice, garnished with a tampon. Needless to say I didn’t try it. 

Looking back, more than twenty years later, it all sounds very New York and my first time there was lots of fun. We should probably have stayed for four days rather than seven but you live and learn and besides we had a week in Florida to look forward to and of course the horror of missing the flight back home. But that’s for another time.

We went back to New York just once more, in May 2001, with friends. I’d love to go again, it has changed so much, but if I’m honest I don’t think I can afford it now. Back then I was happy to rack up credit card debt and say I’ll pay it off when I’m older, but now I am older, comparatively I earn less money than I did, I don’t want to be in debt again, and I’ve got my ISA to think about. Leave Manhattan to the wealthy and the young adventurers. 

Long live 1999.

Gucci loafer under the couch.

"Okay honey, so, when you hear your name, walk across the stage, the hostess will talk to you, then get into the shower, pull the handle up and the water will come on," he explained. "Make sure you're good and wet all over then get out of the shower, walk to the middle of the stage and dance your ass off!"

"Em, excuse me," I asked, "I have a couple of questions..."

"Oh my gawd! Your accent is too much!"

"Thank you." I was flattered, naturally.

"Whadda ya wanna know honey?" the young man cocked his head and smiled through me.

"Well it's not so much as a question but I need to check - will he, er she, touch me? They won't try to take my shorts off will they?"

"No honey, don't worry, you'll be great! Now take your clothes off behind that curtain, leave your underwear on, and take a seat over there until you hear your name."

The backstage assistant minced off to brief another contestant as I ducked behind the curtain and started taking my clothes off wondering why the hell I was about to go on stage at a gay drag bar on the American border with Mexico.

*  *  *  *  *

That morning we'd woken in La Jolla, San Diego, at the house of Peter Nedley and his boyfriend Stan. Peter was originally from Wythenshawe in South Manchester and after a stint in the merchant navy had settled in Southern California, married and had a son. After a subsequent stint in which he played the role of straight family man, he and his wife had split and Peter met Stan.

We'd arrived the afternoon before after being introduced, long distance, by Peter's cousin who sold us our flights to The States, back in the UK.

"I love the gays me." she'd said in that matter of fact way of a Mancunian. She didn't take her eyes off the screen while tapping away at the computer. "My cousin's gay you know. Lives with a Chinese lad. You should get in touch when you get to California. He'd love to see you."

Somehow this off the cuff comment resulted in us staying with Peter and Stan for two nights and being shown the sights of San Diego. 

We arrived after a four hour drive from Santa Barbara and knocked on the door of the bungalow. It was 1997 and communication was very different then. We'd not had email contact, we didn't even speak to them on the phone ahead of our arrival. It was all arranged through the cousin and we just rocked up on the doorstep on an agreed afternoon in May.

"Hello. I'm Chris." said Chris.

"You made it!" Peter face lit up and he flung his arms around his guest.

Chris struggled his way out of the bear hug. "And this is Richard." 

"Um, hello?" I was a shy 21 year old and unaccustomed to American hospitality.

Peter gripped me and pulled me into his chest before introducing his partner with an open palm and a flourish of his hand.

"This is Stan!" he enthused in his California slash Manchester accent.

Stan looked us up and down, we were dishevelled and sweaty from being in the car. He pouted, raised his eyebrows and said, "We kick our shoes off when we come into the house," before turning on his heel and disappearing inside.

Whilst it can be said that Stan's welcome was slightly cooler than Peter's, he soon warmed up and within no time was talking me through a new painting that had caught my eye on the wall of the sitting room. It was by a friend of his, in acrylic, and was called 'I lost a Gucci loafer under the couch'. 

The painting was in the style of a sixties Hockney and wasn't bad for an amateur. It depicted a domestic scene between two aloof men, one was fishing around under a Robin Day-esque sofa for a just-out-of-reach shoe while the other stood in the doorway frowning at his wristwatch.

I admired it, and cooed to Stan, while secretly fancying that one day Chris and I would recreate that scene. I'd be the one who was missing the shoe, naturally.

The house was lovely, in that effortless Californian style. Single storey decorated with a mix of original art, orchids and flea market finds. Above the table in the open plan kitchen-diner hung a wooden candelabra made up of four angels with terracotta skirts and ochre wings, each holding two candles, one in each hand. 

The indigo table was distressed before distressed was even a thing, and despite having two foreign strangers about to arrive neither Peter nor Stan had seen fit to clear the rubbish off it or indeed tidy the house at all. It was immediately relaxing.

"You'll be staying in my son's room." Peter said, "it's just down the hall."

"Perfect, do you mind if we drop our bags in there now?"

"Sure, just leave them wherever, and mind the toys. You'll be in the double at the bottom and he'll sleep in the top bunk."

We dragged our enormous suitcases to the bedroom, closed the door to and I turned to Chris. 

"Did he say his kid would be sleeping in here with us?"

"I think so." 

"His four year old child? With two strangers? I could be a paedophile for all he knows!"

"But you're not."

"He doesn't know that!" I protested, "You'll have to tell him." I was less confident about speaking my mind back then.

Chris waited for an opportune moment to tell Peter that we didn't feel entirely comfortable sleeping with his toddler, to which he replied, "No problem, he can sleep in between me and Stan." 

With the sleeping arrangements agreed we settled in for an evening at home and a barbecue in the back yard. Stan had been to the farmers' market and picked up a butternut squash and some aubergines which would be perfect for me before the other three tucked into steaks the size of my head.

We woke late the following morning, enjoyed brunch - a novelty for two Brits used to three square meals a day - and sat around sipping artisan coffee and discussing what we'd like to do with our day.

"We know this really cool beach." suggested Peter.

"I love the beach!" I piped up.

"Yeah," drawled Stan in his soft, Californian tones, "Black's Beach is beautiful. We could go there."

"Great, sounds marvellous." 

Little did I know what I'd agreed to.

"It's a gay beach." said Stan.

"Okay..."

"And there's a nude section."

"I see."

"More coffee?" Peter topped me up as I side-eyed Chris and twisted my mouth.

Whilst getting ready for the beach, surrounded by stuffed toys and wooden toys, I turned to Chris and quietly but urgently said, "I'm not going on a nudist beach!"

"You don't have to take your clothes off." Chris was nonchalant.

"I don't care! I have no intention of taking my clothes off in public and I certainly don't want to see that man's ginger pubes!"

"Don't be silly." Chris already knew he was fighting a losing battle.

"It's our first anniversary in a couple of days. It's completely inappropriate. I'm not going."

"Okay, okay. We don't have to."

I stuffed a towel and a bottle of sunscreen in a backpack and headed back out to our hosts.

Later, as we sat in the back of Stan's green, open top four by four, Peter passed the time of day by asking "So what's the gay car of choice in England these days?"

"I don't drive I'm afraid," I replied.

"We don't really have one," said Chris. "I drive a Renault Laguna," he offered.

Stan looked quizzically at Peter and they both shrugged.

"You see this drive?" Peter pointed to a gate as we sped up a hill. "They say it leads to the house where Tom Cruise takes his boys at the weekends."

"Ah." I acknowledged, wondering who on earth these boys were and whether Nicole went with them to the house.

 

We continued the drive to the national park and Black's beach practically in silence until after nearly fifteen minutes Peter had another bash at small talk.

"So what's the gay car of choice in England nowadays?"

"You asked that already." Stan interrupted, shutting him down.

Eventually parked up, and bags retrieved from the back of the Californian gay car of choice, Chris told our hosts that we weren't really comfortable (again) with the nudist beach, especially as it was so close to our anniversary. They seemed to sense that it was me that didn't want to go and began poking fun. I laughed it off while secretly promising myself I'd punish them by breaking something in their home or starting a small fire just before we left.

At the time I assumed they were teasing me for being shy and self conscious but, with the hindsight of over twenty years, I now suspect they were annoyed that they weren't going to get to see a good looking twenty one year old lad naked. 

The irony is that if I'd have once thought I was good looking at that age I might have actually gone to Black's beach and got undressed but, as it happened, I thought I was a dog. I think that's probably what they mean by youth is wasted on the young.

Chris and I stopped before the cliffs began to rise leaving Peter and Stan to walk the two miles or so along the Pacific coast to the gay, nudist beach. We had a lovely afternoon sunbathing and splashing around in the sea before our hosts turned up again. Stan looked tanned and healthy, Peter on the other hand looked for all the world like like a walking beacon, his fair skin still being unused to the southern California sun. As we walked back to Stan's four by four I wondered if Peter had used a higher SPF on his nether regions to avoid singeing and, if so, did Stan help him apply it or did he take matters into his own hands.

That evening our temporary landlords took us to the Kazumi Sushi bar in downtown San Diego before driving us to another venue for after dinner drinks. The late night coffee shop was magical, we took a table outside and I ordered a glass of wine and a slab of chocolate cake with gold leaf running through the sponge and a rich black cherry glaze. We chatted about our day at the beach, our thoughts on San Diego and La Jolla, and our plans for the rest of our holiday as we were due to travel north again for our flights out of San Francisco which left a week later.

Every now and then either Peter or Stan would make another sly dig about Black's beach, but I was chilled now after self lubricating with a few glasses of wine so the gentle drubbing was like water off a duck's back.

As I finished off the last of the gateau, washing it down with a swig of chardonnay, the enchantment of the twinkly lights and soft music that enveloped us was dashed when I saw the biggest cockroach known to human kind make a bolt for it behind the counter, swiftly followed by a tap dancing waiter intent on stopping the creature in its tracks.

"Ready to go?" Peter stood up and led us back to the four by four. Next stop was a nightclub where Chris was thrilled to be asked for ID at the age of thirty three, Stan ruined the experience for him by revealing that everyone had to show ID. The police, it was rumoured, had a habit of coming down hard on gay venues that couldn't prove they'd checked everyone inside was old enough to be there. 

Jaywalking was apparently another tactic the cops would use to torment the gays back then, something I learned half way across the road when Peter clutched his pearls and shrieked "Oh my God Richard! No!" 

Normally a minor misdemeanour officers would hang around near gay bars in the hope they could ticket someone for crossing the road in the wrong place, a strange cat and mouse affair I wasn't used to back home in 90s Manchester - a place where I'd seen a police van drive past a full blown fight taking place in the middle of Princess Street without the officers batting an eyelid.

It was too early to be in the club, and it was practically empty, so once we'd necked a quick gin and tonic, and I'd marvelled at video-mixing, a novelty to my British eyes, we moved on.

We landed at an open air venue, apparently close to the Mexican border, with a stage at one end and the bar and toilets at the other. 

After stuffing my face on sushi, and the huge slice of incredibly rich chocolate cake, I was dying for the toilet and so left the group buying margaritas at the bar, to go for a sneaky poo. I was aghast when I walked into the empty restroom to find two urinals on the wall next to two sit down toilets which, despite being in cubicles with dividing walls, were missing doors leaving the latrines open to the room. I weighed up my options - risk a flash-crap and relieve myself or hold on to it for the rest of the night. I'm British so I had a wee, clenched my cheeks and went back to the bar hoping it would crawl back up inside me.

Eventually seated at a table I learned that tonight, being Friday night, there was a regular competition where the winner would walk away with a hundred dollars. It was the highlight of the week and the reason Peter and Stan had chosen this particular bar. 

Contestants would get up on stage, shower in their underwear, and dance for the crowd. The winner would be the person who received the biggest cheer at the end of the game. 

A round of tequila arrived at the table. I tipped mine into the remains of my cocktail and swilled it down before ordering another jug. I read the leaflet on the table and beckoned Chris over.

"I'm going to do it." I whispered cupping his ear.

"What?"

"The competish'n. I'm going to take part." I slurred

"What? Why?"

"They think I'm a prude becaushe I wouldn't go to that beach."

"Richard..."

"Sho I'm going to do it." The jug of margarita was delivered, I paid the waiter and grimacing through the booze said, "Keep the shange."

"You don't have to, you know." Chris was worried.

"I know. But I'm gonna..." I flared my nostrils and gave him a slightly crazed but defiant look before turning back to the table.

Just then there was a roll of drums, a fanfare of Mexican trumpets and a spotlight illuminated the centre of the stage. A seven foot drag queen occupied the stage, she grabbed a microphone from its stand and addressed the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! This is your ten minute warning. If anyone wants to try their luck for this week's grand prize of one hundred dollars," the crowd whooped, "then raise your hand now and let one of the waiters know who you are."

My hand shot up and everyone round the table gawped at me.

"You don't have to." pleaded Chris.

"I know." I replied through gritted teeth.

A waiter came over. "Hi sweet, you takin' part tonight?"

"Yesh! Where do I shine?"

"He means sign," explained Chris.

"Come with me," and with that he grabbed my hand and led me to the side of the stage where I was delivered to the back stage assistant.

"Name and age please?"

"Rishard. Richard Douglash." I hiccuped. "I'm twenty one."

"Where are you from?"

"England."

"They're gonna love you honey!"

"Thanksh."

"Before I go through everything, I need to check - will your shorts become transparent when they're wet? Because if they do then I've got some here you can use instead."

The next few minutes whizzed by as I prepared myself. I sobered up instantly and the next thing I knew a voice from the stage announced, "Hey fellas, we've got a real treat for you tonight! A British twink!"

The crowd roared; backstage I regretted not risking the poo.

"Go easy on him you guys! This is Richard, he's twenty one and he's all the way from England!"

I was shoved onto the stage and immediately went into auto drive. The drag queen asked me a few questions before pointing to the glass sided shower to her right. I bit my lip and got in.

As the water drenched me the music started booming. I was soaking. I looked down to check my shorts, thankful they hadn't become see-through. My dignity intact and dripping wet, I headed back to the middle of the stage where I spent what felt like hours, but was probably all of 45 seconds, gyrating and dancing for the baying crowd.

Money maker shaken, I retreated backstage until all the contestants had had their turn. The final humiliation was spent as we all returned to the stage for the final applause, still damp, wearing only our boxer shorts and one by one contestants were voted off based on how loud the crowd cheered and clapped. 

I wish I could say I won but sadly I came second. Returning to the table with my chin held a little higher I was consoled by the subtly impressed Peter and Stan. They told me the guy that came out on top took part every week and had a gang of friends who would help him win. According to my hosts he used the money to pay the rent which made me feel slightly better. At least I could walk away with my pride.

San Francisco on my mind

Chris and I spent Saturday afternoon painting the walls at the back of our house. The old red brick now brightened up with the Alpine Blue masonry paint which took five weeks to travel from Darwen to Altrincham and finally to us. We're getting lots of jobs done during the lockdown, jobs which might have still been ideas if we weren't restricted to internet shopping and staying at home. I've never seen the cutlery drawers so neat before.

One of the lovely treats of being at home all weekend is when friends visit unannounced, usually on their daily day-release walk round the neighbourhood. I was putting some plates in the dishwasher after lunch when I heard David and Dino calling from the street to the garden and saw Chris wander down the drive to greet them. We had a ten minute chat and catch up, them on the street and us at the front door naturally. You really appreciate proper, face to face contact with people when you go so long without it.

Dino, who teaches fine art at Liverpool John Moores, is still working and having to adapt to online tutoring. I'd have imagined it would be pretty tricky to do but he's modified the way he works, like many of us, and he even says there are definite benefits to it. Not least of which are reduced stress levels from not having to drive from Salford to Liverpool every day.

Earlier in the day Matthew had stopped by to drop off a book. I have no idea when I'd mentioned it but I'd said at some point that I hadn't read The Days of Anna Madrigal, the last in the Tales of the City series, he remembered and, kind soul that he is, lent me his copy. The logistics of giving someone a book when you're supposed to stay two metres apart from each other are surprisingly problematic, especially when I was lending him one of mine in return. How does one land a hardback book in a friend's open backpack from six feet away without lobbing it at the back of their head?

There was a bit of a debacle last week when I ordered two books from Waterstones, one for me and one for Alison, only for them both to be delivered to her, in Leeds, on consecutive days. I've been in touch with them, offering to send one back, post-lockdown, and suggesting they post me a copy to Manchester as they were supposed to. I received an automated response to say their customer service team are working through a backlog dating back a month and my query is in a queue. I can't say I'm surprised they have such a mountain of complaints when they struggle with something so simple as putting the correct address on a book, but never mind, everything is forgivable in the age of Coronavirus.

In the absence of my new book Matthew's unexpected delivery was a welcome surprise. Especially as without it I'd have been forced to carry on trawling through Dracula, which I ordered while drunk one night thinking it was about time I actually read it. It's alright I suppose, it's just so Victorian and verbose, and the writing so small, that a chapter can take what feels like weeks to read. I get a far bigger sense of achievement with larger fonts.

For years I've had a habit of buying books which I think I ought to read so my bookcase is filled with unread classics such as Anna Karenina, Moby Dick and The Dharma Bums which sit neatly next to John Irving, Stephen King and (for shame) Helen Fielding. I'm a terrible snob when it comes to books so both the Brigit Jones books - given not bought - are hiding behind a Christmas Cactus, and my Stephen King horrors, well thumbed and secretly loved, are stashed behind a pile of my granny's antique Charles Dickens novels. I've even been known, in the height of my snobbery, to put what I consider to be higher brow books on shelves at eye level and trashy ones lower down, out of immediate eye line. Thus Doris Lessing and James Joyce enjoy the heady heights of the top shelf, unread of course, while The Lovely Bones and Life of Pi languish at knee height.

For a very slow reader I think I'm reasonably well read. I've read Frankenstein, Wuthering Heights and The Go Between for example, and my favourite authors are Salman Rushdie and Gore Vidal who are both revered. However the fact that I turn my nose up at George Orwell and I stopped reading Brighton Rock at page 215 with only thirty two pages left to go leaves some of my friends aghast. And as far as I'm concerned Dickens can do one - they made me read that at school and it was dullsville in my opinion. I tried The Hobbit when I was a kid and I shan't be going back there either, Tolkien is banished in this house.

Anyway, I'm rambling, where was I? Armistead Maupin - certainly not high brow but a master storyteller and a favourite all the same.

Thankful to be able to ditch Jonathan Harker and his drearily lustful pal, Nosferatu, I started reading The Days of Anna Madrigal. I first came across Tales of the City at the age of eighteen when Channel 4 broadcast the mini-series based on the book. It was a revelation to me to see gay people on the telly and as I was, let's say, exploring my tendencies, I was initially hooked into it by that. Then of course the storytelling grabbed me and I was addicted.

I didn't know then that it was based on a book, assuming it to be just another TV series and it wasn't until I was twenty that I saw it in print after seeing a dogeared copy on a toilet cistern in Shrewsbury. Since then I've read the lot, aside from this weekend's delivery, and even seen the author at a book reading and interview in Salford last year.

Maupin has a talent for plonking the reader in San Francisco, in any given year, and making you feel like you know it intimately. I suppose that's what a good writer should be able to do and he has this skill in abundance.

In 1997 Chris and I took our first holiday together and at my insistence we went to California rather than Florida, somewhere he'd been time and again. My primary reason for this was that I didn't want to go to all the places he'd already been to with his awful ex. Another reason however was that I wanted to go to San Francisco and that desire was based exclusively on Tales of the City.

We originally decided that what we'd do is book our flights in and out of San Francisco, two weeks apart, and find accommodation when we were there, each day dependent on where we found ourselves driving to. While booking the flights and chatting to the travel agent, she revealed that her cousin Peter lived in California, in a place called La Jolla in San Diego. He was originally from Wythenshawe in south Manchester and had been in the merchant navy, settling in California, marrying and having a child. Since then Peter had been busy setting up a construction company, splitting from his wife and shacking up with an Asian boyfriend called Stan, many years his junior.

"You should go and stay with him!" she said, so she arranged it and we did.

With a couple of weeks to go before our holiday we thought it might be a good idea to at least ensure we had some accommodation when we landed in San Francisco so we got looking. The internet in 1997 was a cumbersome beast in comparison to what we have today, in many ways like a kid at a special school, small, slow and dim, so Chris asked around people he knew for recommendations of where we might call and book a night or two in advance.

Luckily someone from a record company he used to deal with knew somebody in San Francisco who knew somebody else that rented out a room. This was ten years before AirBNB was conceived but essentially that's what we were going to do. We were given instructions for how to find the friend when we landed, agreed a price of $40 a night, and that was that.

Landing at SFO via Chicago and after about nineteen hours travelling we bumbled out into the dazzling California sun. This was pre-mobile phone for us and all we knew was that we were to find the 'friend', a woman in a champagne coloured VW Beetle. Surprisingly she found us in minutes, packed our cases into the boot of the car and we sped off into town, her chattering away, a dime a dozen, and interrogating us about our journey.

We arrived at a typical wooden Victorian house in the Mission District. The 'friend' hoiked our bags out onto the pavement, then taking the steps at the front of the house two at a time, bounded to the front door and hammered on it. A young man came to the door and with wildly expressive arms flying around her head like a windmill, she explained who we were and introduced us then immediately went on her way with a parting "Good luck you guys!" I'm not sure if it was meant for us or our new landlords.

The couple, one Brazilian, the other French were strangely quiet and moody for hosts but welcoming and generous all the same. They had the middle apartment in the house with neighbours upstairs and down and, once cash had changed hands for the room, they gave us our own key and showed us around.

The place felt spacious and was filled with bohemian touches, a battered old ladder in the bathroom in place of a towel rail, wall hangings, plants everywhere with fairly lights twinkling away in them and a huge cactus bedecked with glow in the dark stars.

I was immediately jealous after all I'd grown up, in a small terraced house in the countryside in Oldham, and only ever lived in Chris's house in Sale, a small semi on an estate, since moving out. This place was wildly exciting to my unsophisticated, twenty one year old eyes.

We were shown to the guest bedroom, a large room with a bay window at the front of the house, and told that we could use the whole place as we saw fit, only their bedroom was off limits which was understandable. Delirious from jet lag and having been awake for the best part of twenty four hours did what any sensible travellers would do, we unpacked, had a half hour lie down, then headed out to find food. That night remains a blur in my mind simply because of exhaustion. I've never been very good without sleep you see, I've even been known to fall asleep in nightclubs and once behind someone's gran's sofa at an after-party in Moston.

The next day, wide awake at 4.00am but still refreshed and raring to explore, we helped ourselves to breakfast and headed out. San Francisco, it seemed, was small enough to walk around but big enough to completely knacker you out. We spent hours marching up and down its steep streets, being sure to take in as many sights as possible. The Golden Gate Bridge turned out to be way further away from anything than we expected but was definitely worth the hike.

Chris was especially interested in the crisis counselling phones which were dotted along it.

"Take a picture! Take a picture!" he insisted.

I obliged, only a little concerned that the last person to have used it may well have plummeted to a watery death beneath us. It was our holiday and we were going to do tourist shit. China Town was ticked off, the Financial District too for some reason, the cable cars were ridden and of course an obligatory trip to Russian Hill was made to look for the fictional Barbary Lane from Tales of the City.

Worn out and in need of a change of clothes after a day of hardcore sightseeing we headed back to the Mission. We took the Muni in the general direction of home and eventually disembarked. In 1997 Chris and I had only ever lived in Manchester, so we weren't accustomed to the system of street numbering and naming of junctions used in San Francisco. This led us to missing our stop and getting off one station too far. That one stop may as well have been twenty miles away.

Unaware of our mistake we wandered up into the daylight and stood there at the junction blinking into the sun, no doubt looking confused and startled, as we took in the sights around us. It was like a scene from a Romero film with scores of what appeared to be brain eating zombies staggering around the streets. As one tripped on a pavement another wandered in front of a moving car, oblivious to world around.

It took a minute or two to realise what we'd done, after all the junction looked very similar to the one we should have got off at. A quick plan was formed - we would walk back to where we should be, it couldn't be that far surely, and we knew which way we should go didn't we? At that moment I had never felt that I looked like a lost tourist so much in my entire life. Chinos and a polo shirt with a rucksack was not the fashion in these parts.

Spotting a police cruiser as it pulled up at the lights we nipped over and through the open window told the officer what we'd done and asked how best to get back to where we needed to be.

"That's quite a mistake." he pointed out in that slow, obvious manner some Americans are prone to, "What you guys need to do is take one block that way, turn right and go another five blocks."

Thank god! We finally knew how to get out of there, and we weren't going to have our brains eaten on the junction of Crack Cocaine and Mission.

"Thank you so much!" we said earnestly.

Just then the lights changed and as we stepped back, away from the police car, he called through the window to us, "Hey guys, be sure to hold tight to you bags!" He sped off leaving us to a certain death.

That evening, very much alive and kicking, we went for dinner and drinks in the Castro and reflected on the day's adventures. We sat in a colourful Mexican restaurant which had cute salt and pepper cruets, shaped like cacti, on the tables. I had chosen it because, despite this being California, or perhaps because this was America, I was surprised to see vegetarian food on a menu. My experience thus far was much like that in continental Europe, where anyone wanting to eat anything other than meat of fish had to settle for pizza and pasta.

I ordered the grilled cactus leaf with a sense of smug satisfaction. A sense that was soon wiped away when I bit into the weird tasting, gelatinous, lump on my plate fifteen minutes later.

After dinner we tried a few bars, all gay bars, some more successful than others. I should have known better with the first place as we got to the bottom of the stairs leading from the street to the basement to be presented with a heavy, black, leather curtain designed either to keep the world out or the clientele in. Thankfully it was early so we had a quick beer and moved on to a drag bar with a balcony that stretched around two sides of the building's first floor. Possibly influenced by the disgusting cactus leaf, I asked the bar man for a bottle of Sol.

"I didn't even know they still made that." he said before offering me a Budweiser and an apologetic shrug.

We left San Francisco after a couple of days to head south but as our flights were from there in the not too distant future the guys whose room we rented insisted we kept their house key and let ourselves back in for the final two days of our holiday.

When we did eventually land back in town we couldn't remember their address or indeed how to find the house, and not wanting to risk getting lost with a bunch of junkies again, we kept the key and booked ourselves into the worst hotel in the California, The Amsterdam on Taylor Street. It was so bad the cockroaches had moved out. I checked it out on Tripadvisor a couple of days ago after finding a scrap book of our trip to California, and it turns out nothing much has changed.

Our last two days were spent much as our first two were, being proper tourists. We went to Pier 39 to see the sea lions and took a trip to Alcatraz, we played mini golf (according to the photographs at least) and went to UnderWater World where we met a giant foam shark. Finally running out of things to do on our last day we spent a few hours at the cinema watching Jurassic Park 2. I don't remember the film but I do remember people booing at the screen when a Coca Cola advert came on. I think by that point I'd got the measure of San Francisco and I liked it. I promised myself that I'd go back one day.

Cut to twenty one years later.

It was September 2018 that we eventually returned. Someone once said, the more things change the more they stay the same, and that felt so true there.

We stayed in an AirBNB in Dolores Heights with two guys who rented a room out, only this time our trip from the airport was in an Uber and not in the back of a friend of a friend's champagne VW Beetle. The city felt bigger and noisier despite not having grown. Poverty was more noticeable and everything felt much more expensive than it had done.

The sea lions were still there but Pier 39 had become more of a tourist trap, if that was possible. The Golden Gate Bridge was still really far away but still worth going to see again and while the Castro felt way more gentrified than it had two decades earlier, it was still full of gay bars, outrageous characters and drag queens.

I'm glad we went when I was only 21 years old because returning when I was 42 made me realise that unless I get a better paying job, I can't really afford to go there again.

The city has become richer as I have become poorer which is a bummer but that's okay because I'll always have Armistead Maupin to take me back there.