Monday morn mews meet cancelled at last mo since Boss Birmans making strange purring noises. Office sending over cream and other kitty treats. Divert Circa Porsche, already well en route, to gym; tho’ no sign of young Karl, who’d not even phoned in sick; so no joy there either. Instead catch up over Soho lunch with Em (‘n em), who – clutching away somewhat obsessively at her bump - complains Kev’s becoming “very possessive, and bun still cookin’ in oven”.

Spend Tuesday morn planning piece been asked to pen for Capital Queer, about departing Blair’s legacy and the crowning of Brown. Hooray for Employment Rights, Civil Partnerships and the rest! I’d give him credit - despite many pro-gay advances in fact being under legal pressure from Europe, and with cross-party support - though I bemoan all the unfinished business on his watch. We still await the outlawing of the incitement of anti-gay hatred; legalisation of full same-sex marriage, like in, say, Spain; reform of the asylum system to grant refugee status to LGBT people fleeing genuine homophobic persecution abroad; legalisation of consensual SM sex, gay or straight; and greater compliance with Europe-driven gender law to ensure UK trans rights. Looking ahead, Gordon’s only ever bothered to show up for one gay-related vote in his entire time in Government. I also chuckle to read that - whilst former PM Heath’s gay past is enjoying its latest posthumous outing - our supposedly imminent PM Brown has been verbally, homophobically assaulted by a gang of hoodies in London’s Soho, as he was leaving famous Greek Street eatery, The Gay Hussar. “They were all screaming abuse at him, calling him gay and a poof,” one onlooker reported, as the dour Scots charmer fled. “One girl said she’d had her benefits cut and was going to rob him.”

Nutty ex-Neighbour on phone, Wednesday eve – us having strangely bonded since our Tantric pact – anxiously asking my advice re a glory hole incident in his own hall. Apparently, one poking punter had got a bit narked when he wouldn’t swallow and started to break the blessed door down before fleeing with an expensive print he’d (rather stupidly) left hanging on the wall. Can Nutty report the incident, anonymously, he asks? Over two thirds of homophobic and transphobic crimes go unreported. Rightly or wrongly, when it comes to reporting a crime, many LGBT people are still worried that they will not be taken seriously by the police or criminal justice system; or they might even be treated as criminals themselves. Some may also fear being outed. Others may fear that reporting might lead to even greater victimisation by the perpetrators. Whatever the reason, I advise nervy Nutty that “assisted reporting” to the police, via organisations like Galop (020 7704 2040), is an increasingly popular way for LGBT people to report crime. You can either permit Galop to forward your full contact details to police, along with the facts of your case; or, if you prefer, you can report to police via Galop - completely anonymously. Although police naturally can’t fully investigate an anonymously-reported case, it could still help them build up a bigger picture that could eventually – when combined with other on-the-record reports - help lead to the prosecution and conviction of a perpetrator. Says he never liked the print that much anyway.

Blast from the past, Thursday. “Merry meet, remember me” chirps my pagan red-head curate down the line, inviting me to celebrate the Summer Solstice at a local gay coven he’s just joined - in Cheam. Instantly under his spell, I whiz down to join him, in my Porsche. “I’ve always been ‘out’ as a Pagan,” booms the presiding celebrant witch. “Paganism thinks all creation is part of Nature. If we deny our own natures, including our sexualities, we deny and insult the God and Goddess who created us. Any so-called ‘Pagan’ who is anti-gay is in fact anti-Pagan. But, regardless of gender or sexuality, if anyone approaches Paganism looking for sex then they’d soon get bored. You’d have far more fun that way down your local sauna! If it all revolved around sex, things would soon unravel. My coven doesn’t even go ‘skyclad’ (naked), we all wear robes. Others may strip off - claiming being naked helps the energies flow better - but it seems to me if energy can pass through brick walls it can surely pass through a piece of cloth!”

At which point, the curate cutie and I swiftly make our farewells and resolve instead to spend the Solstice weekend as surely Thor intended: up in the ultimate circle, the Arctic Circle, at a volcanic thermal spa in Northern Iceland! Gushing geysers! Having previously tasted the stark, raw beauty of this earthy nation in capital, Reykjavík, I already hungered, yearned and veered towards Iceland’s Arctic North. From 100,000-populated Reykjavík, we take a staggeringly dramatic 45 minute twin-prop flight across the Thor-hewn interior, to 15,000-populated Akureyri, scarce 60 miles from the Circle. We linger to gawp at any one of the local uni students, perchance soaking in a hot pot or steamer at the town’s Swimming Pool; or holding court at some swish café-bar. We then drive an hour and a half north, ever Circle-wards, to 2,500-populated Húsavik for some whale watching; and to poke inside the world’s only “Penis Museum” (a.k.a. Institute of Phallology) where you’ll be quite literally gob-smacked by a jaw-dropping six foot whale cock on entry, followed by an eye-watering (if not mouth-watering) array of severed male mammalian members and pickled pricks, chopped off anything from polar bears to the bloke next door. Duly horned, we drive back down towards Akureyri, absorbing the play of light on mighty Lake Mývatn; taking a dip in the mineral-rich waters and steamers of nearby Jardbodin Spa – gawping at young attendants with pale skin and looks that smolder like a heap of freshly-spewn volcanic slag; and – at long last, gasping at the majestic sprays of the Godafoss Falls, into which a local king once supposedly tossed his old idols when converting to the Cross but which nonetheless retain all their pagan power and might - will enact that most sacred of Solstice rites…

Woken by Joshua ‘n Charlie hard at it – and do I detect a third voice? - Monday morn. Enough to make me place flat on market, though doubt Mous and Cous could survive the move. Boss in bullish mood at mews meet. Unimpressed by Kev ‘n I’s Crusaid walk yesterday; wines we need more coverage, and asks, that Kev troll his database for any members who might want to speak to the media, off the back of recent survey findings apparently showing that some ethnic cultures in the capital don’t think homosexual acts are “acceptable”.  

Field “interesting” call at Switchboard, Tuesday night. Guy dials up just to talk dirty. Just sit and listen. Best not to hang up but let such events take their course; or else they only ring back, goaded. Really quite impressive. One should never underestimate or neglect the latent power of words to conjure Eros, not least late at night.

Somewhat alarmingly, keep spying supposedly-absented yet distorted-and-distended lurking Sue and pal through the other side of the fish and shark tanks at the London Aquarium, at Wednesday afternoon Toby sesh. When will she let go? The Court could bust her for that.

Another dramatic call at Switchboard, this time from a ranting, though anonymous, self-declared BNP member: “It’s unnatural. It’s not the individual I find distasteful, it’s what they do. All homosexuals should be celibate, which wouldn’t be so bad. Or if not, they should keep quiet about it. But instead, they parade it and confuse and damage young fellows. It’s a PC inversion of civilised values. Disgusting! Look at Sydney Mardi Gras - all those young guys in their tiny leather shorts. I admire that Matthew Parris guy and you wouldn’t know Stephen Fry was a puff either, would you? I like that guy who does Lilly Savage too - very dry humour. There’s a lot in the arty-farty world, maybe they get pressured into it? Graham Norton - is he one? It may be something innate but, then, I can’t understand how it’s not been bred out genetically. So I think it’s largely conditioned. In a way I feel sorry for you. Have you never been with a woman? They say when you’re ten you admire a male teacher. Not me! And if anyone feels that, it’s not to be encouraged. But now teachers even feel intimidated into promoting it. I used to have a couple of queers living a few doors down from me. They never told me, but it was obvious - two blokes living together! I still said “hello”. I think that was tolerant! It all still gives me the creeps though. The Daily Mail is full of pompous old farts like Simon Heffer and Peter Hitchens - all Tories and I hate them. I don’t like the Daily Telegraph either because they call the BNP ‘fascist’. I like The Guardian - I’m masochist - especially the comment pages where I think, ‘What a load of shit!’” Just sit; listen.

Call from 34-year old male nursery nurse in the Outer Hebrides, amongst the most isolated parts of the British Isles, on Thursday: “Growing up gay in a remote place, you do begin to think you’re alone - especially in my youth, because the internet hadn’t quite taken off then. Even though we’re part of the UK - with its shift in attitudes and legal advances - you can still feel cut off over the water on these Isles. The only real form of gay community that I have seen here has been through the internet, things like Gaydar - and one I’ve used called Circa. The web is so important nowadays, both for accessing information and for making contacts - so you know you’re not alone. To hook up - whether for friends or to find someone special – online is the way now. I once snogged a guy I was seeing, in the mainstream Heb club here, in Stornoway. We were both very drunk and copped off on the dance floor. Apparently, you could see us at it on the big screen upstairs – or so I was told by one of my nursery parents I later bumped into! No problem. Not sure I’d have done it without the booze though – my boy kept mixing my drinks. It’s a highly religious community and you have to be sensitive to that. The churches have a very big stranglehold on the way things move up here. A decade ago, the children’s play swings in the park were chained up on Sundays – not now! Pubs, restaurants and petrol stations are now opening on Sundays! Many things, including sexuality, have been repressed here for generations but people’s attitudes are gradually changing and gays are starting to feel more confident about being a little more open in public. But the transformation will happen in ‘Heb Time’ - extremely slowly.” Just wanted a chat. Just listen.

Fairly easily persuade young Karl from gym to come along to informal Circa meet at member’s house in Bloomsbury, Friday night. Admits he’s been getting on well with Josh and Charlie and even been back to theirs a couple of times – explains those extra nocturnal noises, muse I. Gets on like house on fire with Kerry, who’s apparently busy snogging her night-nurse most of the evening in one corner.

Invite Karl to come with me to Pride London Sports Festival that starts tomorrow, Saturday, and he duly accepts my invitation to crash at mine tonight – albeit alas on the sofa – so we can both head off early together; us both having been awoken in good time by the romping boys next door. Karl goes down a storm in the 5-a-side footie; even more so, after, in the showers.

We’re invited out on a weekend bender Vauxhall club crawl in the evening, that actually starts in the early hours of Sunday. I can’t keep up – not having been out seriously clubbing in years; and seems schitzo boom-and-bust to mix all that fab sport with booze ‘n whatever else even sporty clubbing queers seem so eager to consume. Soon loose sight of my young charge. Last I see, he’s chatting with some shifty guy in a shady corner. Poor puppy, has to learn his own lessons, I muse.

Kevin looking bit battered at Monday morning mews meet; moans, as I leave, that Emily’s hormones have really kicked in, now only two or so months to go. Says their Hackney high rise ain’t big enough for the three of ‘em; and that she’s been abusing him, verbally – her ranting that the unborn babe is of no man, he or Boy, but hers alone; occasionally physically. Strange coincidence, then, that I get a call from a battered hubbie on Switchboard shift that very evening. Somewhere twixt a quarter and third of all LGBTs will experience domestic violence at some point in their lives - often when still at home with family or whilst living with a partner. 20-year old gay man Tom had spent about a year and a half living with his partner Jon in Liverpool. Jon had become very abusive during arguments in their first few months together. This had gradually developed into physical violence with Jon also threatening Tom - on a number of occasions - to “track him down” should he leave. “Jon’s just kicked me and pushed me down the stairs,” says Tom. “I’ve had enough; but what to do?” I refer him to gay domestic violence support group Broken Rainbow so they can take him through his options.

Toby session goes well, Tuesday morning. First time Sue’s seemingly trusted me enough to absent herself, as recently ordered by the Court; tho’ soon realise she’s, in fact, trailing me around the Science Museum with a friend - in case I accidentally drop, or do a runner with, my little weebie! Stubbornly ignore, as repeatedly catch glimpses of them lurking behind various exhibits. Young lad calls Switchboard in the evening, anxiously asking, To E or not to E? All his pals apparently do. Advise him it’s a Class A drug, possession of which can carry harsh penalties; and that, from what I can gather, the jury’s still out on its long-term effects - and is likely to remain so for some time to come. However, warn I, there remains an as yet unquantifiable possibility – which some experts claim experiments on animals indicate - that chronic and substantial usage may cause potentially harmful long-term and irreversible changes to the brain that one might not welcome: Refer him to drug advice specialists, not least when he asks about any harmful effects of using poppers – something I’ve always wondered myself, tho’ seen very little authoritative info on.

Very jealous, Wednesday morning, as spy Karl personal-training luvie-duvie work-out buds Josh & Charlie in the gym. Surprised those two have any energy left after working up all their noisy nocturnal sweats. Charlie really starting to fill-out, especially the pecs. Seeing the young rent boy reminds me of Jeff Chevalier, Lord Browne’s 27-year old escort-turned-lover whose allegations about misuse of BP expenses had recently forced the 59-year old closet peer to quit as BP chief exec after lying to Court in an attempt to stop media publicly outing him by exposing the relationship. I met Jeff 3 or 4 years back in the sauna at this very gym. We had sex twice and would’ve had a third bonk had he not been summoned to a certain Chelsea lair at the crucial mo. Feel smug. Cost Lord Browne a reputed £15 million. Cost me nothing.

Interesting Switchboard call, Thursday eve. Young British expat, Daniel, who’d emigrated from Blighty to Barcelona a few years back - to continue a relationship with a Spanish guy who was moving back home after completing a degree in the UK where they’d met. A few months ago that relationship suddenly ended. With his main reason for coming gone, he’s done a lot of soul-searching and decided to stay and make a go of it by himself, for himself. Thing is, he’s just fallen head-over-heals for a nice British boy who’s been over in Barca studying; and is now torn as to whether or not he should be true to form and emigrate back to Blighty when his latest love interest returns home! Thank God I’m seemingly immune to such blatantly painful romantic pangs!

Do some networking at a “Trans with Pride” conference in London, Friday. Boss keen that we’re ever more inclusive – tho’, I suspect, spying some potential PR mileage too - and am on a pretty thankless hunt for any convincing female-to-male post-op suits, that might fall within our rules. Instead, and to my delight, meet one Martha. Born Martin, 50 years ago. Inadvertently introduced to cross-dressing by her parents as a five year old boy – when plonked in a dress as punishment one day - and hardly ever looked back. After much bullying at school, diagnosed with gender dysphoria: brain wired like a woman. For decades struggled with what she’d been physically born as: male. Pursued relationships with women with tenacity, hoping, in vain, this would somehow cure what she had come to view as a curse. Met a specialist in 2001, when diagnosed as a male-female transsexual and prescribed the female hormone oestrogen, so the body could slowly become more female. Underwent full-time so-called “Real Life Test” period - a requirement before being able to proceed with full surgery. Changed name and associated documentation. Had a thyroid cartilage reduction operation to reduce size of Adam’s Apple; a bilateral orchidectomy to remove testes; then final gender reassignment surgery - plus additional breast augmentation procedure for good measure - conducted in Bangkok, full footage available on the web! And, bingo: Martha!

Meet new undertaker member at informal Circa meet, Saturday eve. Makes a change from that insurance guy anyway! Asks me, over brandy, if I’m ready for my “Biggest Day”! Says I could convert my ashes into a Life Gem TM diamond-stud earring; or scatter them via Heavenly Sparkle TM fireworks over the Thames, “rocketing them into space only to re-appear as shooting stars. Your mourners can even don fancy dress!” Advises me to make a will; write a full Celebration of Life Plan TM, focusing on details of desired venue, ceremony content and tone, funeral director and memorial choice; draw up an advance, comprehensive and regularly-reviewed invitations list of those I’d like to attend, or bar – “a useful party list to have, whatever” he quips; and ensure I have a savings or insurance plan in place to pay for both ceremony and hospitality - especially if I’ll need to seal off Dean Street or hire the Astoria!

Kev and I do our bit for charity at Crusaid’s Walk for Life on Sunday, to raise money for HIV and AIDS work. Event starts and finishes in Hyde Park, taking in famous landmarks like the London Eye, Buckingham Palace and Millennium Bridge en route. Shockingly, a third of all gay men living with HIV in the UK do not even know they have the virus, according to a recent study of saliva samples taken from 2000 men at 90 gay venues in London, Manchester and Brighton. This figure was far higher in London, where 44% of HIV+ men seemingly go undiagnosed. The actual rate of HIV infection seems highest in Brighton, at almost 1 in 7 (14%) of all gay men thus randomly tested; and lowest in Manchester, at 1 in 12 (8.6%).

Beyond the Grave: Great British Dead Gay Hate Icons

Times may change but some things stay the same. Circa’s own shameless Adrian Gillan roll-calls

our first “Hall of Shame”: Great British Gay Hate Icons from amongst the dead - lest we forget…

1.                   Mary Whitehouse (1910 - 2001)

Self-styled one-woman antidote to the 60s, Mary-So-Contrary shut Gay News by suing them for blasphemy when they published a poem where Christ professes gay love. She founded the Clean Up TV Campaign, which became the National Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association (now Mediawatch), nagging broadcasters to keep the “moral darkness” of homosexuality off-screen. The Gay Liberation Front famously infiltrated one of her public meetings in 1971 to release mice, snog each other, dress up as clergy and conduct an impromptu sermon urging all present to “Carry on Sinning!” Halleluiah!

Boss hissing and spitting at Monday morning mews meet, meowing that she’s being persecuted for being straight: “Yes - full on - people have quite literally choked on their canapés and drinks when we’ve got round to the ‘and what do you do for a living, my dear’ bit of the conversation. I have had to slap at least four people on the back! Other interesting reactions include them asking if my mother’s still alive? And, am I close to my family? As if Circa is something I have chosen to do, either in secret or to get up their noses! So now I camp it up a bit when asked, and ram it down their narrow-minded throats that gay men are so wickedly funny and witty they make many straight men seem like very dull company!” Her Birmans frantically fretting, I purr off in my Circa-branded Porsche, hoping Kevin can somehow sedate her.

Good neighbours become good friends: but not it you’re gay, apparently. Almost choke on my crispies at breakfast, Tuesday morning, spying a newspaper story re some survey claiming over a third (36%) of those living in Northern Ireland don’t want homos in the home next door. Neither do 29% of Italians; 28% of Irish; 27% of Austrians and Greeks; 26% of Portuguese; and a surprising quarter (25%) of all Australians. Well, lardy Mardi Gras! Swedes are happiest about neighbouring queers, with only 6% against us! After putting up with Josh ‘n Charlie hard at it in their lounge for a full hour next door, I suddenly startle Mous ‘n Cous as I thump on the wall, screaming “shut the f**k up, you f**king poofs”.

Attend first of a series of three Tantric workshops, somewhat hopefully and camply entitled “Hit your T-spot, boys!”, Wednesday eve - at Kouros Queer Centre in Soho, which offers all kinds of “alternative affirmative lifestyle” courses, from extreme lesbian self-defence to advanced vegetarianism. “Hold back for pay back: some Tantric tips will take you to the brink,” coos our young shaven-headed master, from a contorted yogic position surely nature never intended. “Wanking is good, but wanking without cuming is very good. And trying is believing. A little patience, and you’ll soon ride up close to the orgasm-sperm barrier, on the crest of waves that never break. It’s worth it, boys, for one long sustained dry full-body orgasm.” He untwists and, standing erect, spurts: “The average male orgasm lasts between three and ten seconds, rarely exceeding fifteen. Says who? When you’re up there surfing, you can take it to the brink with a dazzling virtuoso display of non-spunkmanship to leave all cumers gasping.” After an hour of this, pointing pretty randomly to a few wallcharts and diagrams, he closes the session promising, “Next week, we disrobe and start our journey into the one, as one.” At which point, one man has a fit of giggles; and I almost join him until – horror – I see it’s my Nutty ex-Neighbour. Must’ve slipped in at the back, late. We agree, over an embarrassed pint at the corner pub afterwards, to keep things entre-nous.

Attend a talk on gay history, Thursday evening – will do almost anything I can to get out of the lonely flat these days – given by some Professor of Queer Studies from somewhere up North who’s stumbled across excerpts of a 250-year-old work that may well be the world’s first ever manifesto explicitly advocating gay human rights: penned by one Thomas Cannon, an 18^th Century gay rights advocate! Ancient and Modern Pederasty Investigated and Exemplified - written in 1749, yet apparently suppressed immediately post-publication – seems to have been an anthology of stories and philosophical texts in defence of male homosexuality. Cannon – the son of a Dean and grandson of a Bishop, who was, like Oscar Wilde a century and half later, prosecuted and forced into exile - wrote: “Unnatural desire is a contradiction in terms; downright nonsense. Desire is an amatory impulse of the inmost human parts.” Sodomy was a capital offence in Britain, punishable by death, until 1861; and homosexuality wasn’t legalized until 1967.

Attend Circa Drinks Party, Friday, at The Arts Club in London’s Mayfair, where we have exclusive use of the stunning Garden and Terrace. After complimentary wine on arrival, down loads of Bolly members keep buying me. Almost spill a tasty Merlot over the oil painting up for grabs in the Lucky Draw. Bump into Boy who claims to be thriving in his Loft - his volunteering website going great guns – although legal fees are starting to rack up re his claims on Emily’s embryo.

‘ello, ‘ello! What do I detect happenin’ ‘ere then? Waltz into gym changing rooms Saturday morn, as per norm, only to be cruised by a prominent out gay copper, nearing retirement. He hovers by the mirror, eyeing up reflections, and flits in and out of loos, nervily, a few too many times. Only backs off when I shake his hand and greet by-the-name upstairs, by the weights; and he realizes I’ve blown his cover. Fair cop.

Back to my roots on Sunday afternoon - in Chelmsford, Essex - to celebrate a kind of Pre-Pride, ahead of the town’s main September extravaganza. Star attraction is Sing-along-Grease, The Movie, plus a 70’s party. Kerry appears, with one of her flirty nurses! Her liver’s defo on the mend and she’s allowed out on day-release if supervised and stays sober. Mum comes to join us and we pass a pleasant afternoon telling our favourite Essex Boy jokes. Q: How does an Essex boy turn the light off after sex? A: He shuts the car door. Q: How do you know when an Essex boy’s had an orgasm? A: He drops his bag of chips. Q: What does an Essex boy put behind his ears to make him more attractive? A: His feet. Q: Why do Essex boys wear briefs? A: To keep their ankles warm. Q. What does the label in an Essex boy’s briefs say? A. NEXT!

Shocked when back from Monday morning mews meet where had updated Boss ‘n Birmans on Kev n I’s Blackpool triumph. Am online, chatting to a bottom guy of unknown HIV status, seemingly keen to “bareback” (have unprotected anal sex) with a top. To elicit more info, I pose “undercover”, as “TopGusher” and start a conversation with “BareBum” – won’t even try to repeat it as all you will see is a row of stars as we have a rottweiler of a word baring facility on Circa-Club.

Fun time with Boy at Tuesday night LGBT comedy club in Soho – confirms he’s got a designer in to make a state-of-the-art “crib space” for his adamantly expected boy via Em – he’s sure it’s a little boy, it’s his, and he’s torn between names… likes Caesar, but warming to Hadrian. Favourite joke of evening: “A boy goes into the doctor’s office for a check-up. As he takes off his shirt, the doctor notices a red ‘O’ on his chest. ‘How did you get that mark on your chest?’ asks the doctor. ‘Oh, my girlfriend went to Oxford and she’s so proud of it she never takes off her Oxford sweatshirt, even when we make love,’ he replies. A couple of days later, another boy comes in for a check-up. As he takes off his shirt, the doctor notices a blue ‘Y’ on his chest. ‘How did you get that mark on your chest?’ asks the doctor. ‘Oh, my girlfriend went to York and she’s so proud of it that she never takes off her York sweatshirt, even when we make love,’ he replies. A couple of days later, another boy comes in for a check-up. As he takes off his shirt, doc notices a green ‘M’ on his chest. ‘Do you have a girlfriend who studied in Manchester?’ asks the doctor. ‘No, but my boyfriend went to Warwick - why?’”

Ah human life! Interesting Switchboard stint, Wednesday evening. Last up, a 37-year old guy, diagnosed HIV+ in 1995: “It’s only recently that my personal drive and ambition has returned. I always found it difficult to plan for the future when I was never sure I had one. Unfortunately I am still waiting for my libido to reappear - suppressed by a mixture of medication, a side-effect I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Moreover, I’ve always found my status difficult to discuss with new people. You can never be sure of their response. Rejection from sexual partners is always the hardest. When someone refused to shake my hand recently, I realised we still have a way to go to remove the stigma. Worst thing about being HIV+ ? The changes in physical appearance - facial and muscular wasting; and the strains medication can have on your stomach. But, with access to drugs, we are luckier than others; so I don’t complain. Anything positive that’s come from being positive? I could bullshit about ‘triumph through struggle’ and such. But, no: nothing.”

First up, at Thursday Switchboard stint - am getting quite hooked on this volunteering lark, would highly recommend it - some guy asking me – me!? – for “man advice”; notably how to handle open relationships. In my experience, some degree of “openness” is the rule rather than the exception in stable long-term gay male relationships. Indeed, say the stats: most (55%) gay men have one or more regular male sexual partners (38% have just the one; 17% have two or more) at any given time. “Openly open” set-ups can vary from couples who look-but-don’t-touch when in bars, to guys who’ve stopped having sex with each other and shag other guys but still regard each other as their lifetime partner. Of course, open relationships can work. But they often require even more effort than monogamy because you may have to deal with jealousy. Some top “man tips”, in general: Be honest with yourself and your partner; communicate your thoughts and feelings - both to yourselves and supportive friends; agree and regularly review rules, needs and boundaries – especially re sex drives and open relationships; respect each other for your differences as much as your similarities; compromise and collaborate; develop shared interests and cultivate mutual friends; think about sex where you are present rather than absent (ie off-your-head); and beware acting out other people’s preconceptions - whether being the proverbial gay “bad boys”, or playing “happily married”.

Only just back in time for Toby sesh on Friday; had been kept waiting to see comatose Kerrie in hospital back in Essex – they’ve been carrying out tests, her liver seems to be “regenerating” and showing new signs of life. Then mad dash to airport to join my one really good - and highly cute - straight friend, who’d invited me to some Greek island for the weekend, with a whole posse of his straight male mates! Refreshing break or restrictive straight-jacket, I wonder? It could easily swing either way. Male intimacy can be a queer thing between gays and straights. You know the story. You’re playing in your work’s five-a-side team and then, time for the showers. Either they chicken out and head straight for the pub - or you do. And once the novelty’s worn off, straight bars can either be a bore or a tease. Unfortunately, being in the minority, I find myself biting my tongue and sitting tight amidst the group in some straight dive as my mind drifts to the swish gay bars and beaches downtown. My eyes latch onto a stray gay boy gang passing outside - lost between bars - and I yearn to mingle, follow and mix with my own. Thankfully, the straight male mate holiday scenario also offers a wealth of opportunities. But, chose your target carefully: the most obvious swinger in the group. You know the sort: strangely curious and so far from his girlfriend back home! Of course, it can be utter hell if you have a crush on your straight roommate, and – despite, over the years, practically thrusting yourself at the poor lad’s oblivious yet alluring loins - he goes and brings a girl back and shags her senseless, as you dissemble sleep, in the same room.