Ahoy me boys! Long-mooted mini-cruise with Karl around the Channel Islands, in and out of Southampton; us sharing a cabin on a maiden voyage of all-male discovery! Welcome break from mews meets and Switchboard; not to mention Prides – least, for another year!

All aboard, Monday! Up anchors and drop kegs cap’n! The crew’s a cruisin’. Cast aloft and watch your aft now matie! Gay and lesbian cruising’s come of age - whether for groups, couples or singles; whatever floats your log. You unpack just the once yet call at every port. Moreover, cabin, meals and entertainment are included in the price. Genuinely gay-male-only ships exist for those man enough to try; or - for those anxious they might just feel too queer-queasy - more commonly, just one section of your boat turns pink! Like mine ‘n Karl’s! Steady as she blows!

Marooned with dozens of marauding manly mariners for days on end, Tuesday and it’s already like some cross between Carry on Cruising, Shipwreck and Murder on the Nile! Location, location, location: wish we’d booked a cabin on a lower deck mid-ship - midway ‘twixt bow and stern. Pitch, roll, and yaw’d have been far less sickeningly noticeable. Plus: also forgot to check our “outside cabin” actually had a view of the sea – not some bloomin’ lifeboat.

Karl almost comes to blows with a pair of selfish Italian queers, Wednesday morn, who both seem to be total deckchair hogs. And should’ve brought along a folding or inflatable travel hanger to dry out all Karl’s dripping Speedos and thongs. That said, Karl has to be constantly reminded only to completely strip in the two, secluded all-male gay nude areas. Being on a larger cruise that includes non-gays, including families with kids, he was forever showing up on the wrong deck or zone, utterly starkers yet pleading ignorance – oft provocatively accusing detractors of either prudishness or of being homophobic.

By Thursday, we both know we should have been firmer sooner when it comes to our dinnertime table-mates. You oughta know within the first five minutes of chatting if your fellow diners are going to bore the pants off - or annoy the sh*t out of - you. Oughtn’t worry about what they might think should you abruptly switch table, mid-servings. You’ll never set eyes again after the final port of call. So - night after night - why are we still staring across at such a group of gormless gay geeks?

As for the Channel Islands, there’re great; least, from what we can tell - from the ship’s deck. Though very lucky to get so much sun at this time of year, our ship is way too big to dock at any of the puny island ports; and the sea way too rough to attempt any transfers via the ship’s tiny tender craft.

Just loitering in the onboard spa, Friday, moored off Sark, when Karl storms in – typically starkers - clutching my mobile, gasping, “It’s Kevin.” Kev says Em’s had a little boy; actually a bigg’n, with blond hair, blue eyes, big muscles – and features the spitting image of… Inge, my former masseur – and, clearly, the one who scored the bull’s-eye during all those three- or four-in-a-bi-bed romps! They’ll naturally confirm the obvious via DNA tests, says Kev, but do I know where Inge is? They’ll have to let him know! Karl and I reluctantly curtail trip - convincing Captain that my second child is about to be born and I must get back to London fast. Lays on special tender just for us: to Guernsey from which to catch a flight.

Frantic phoning round, Saturday afternoon; but no sign of Inge. No word since his dramatic closet-induced breakdown and disappearance about seven or eight months back. Kev quite calm, all things considered; but have to manage a beserk Boy who soon discovers he’s unlikely to be the daddy either, after seeing mini-Ingi in the flesh with his own eyes. Suspect he’ll need to kind of grieve for a bit – over a child he’d convinced himself he’d as good as had; not to mention over all his futile legal and interior décor fees! Chat with Em, one-on-one, on Sunday. Incredibly confused – unsure of Karl; terrified of Boy; and dreading Inge.

Phone in, Monday morn, to say I’m taking another of my ½ day hols – well, I have 50 full days to work through by the end of the year – though reassuring Boss (albeit via Kevin) that I’m drafting another think piece from home today, this time for The Independent, arguing that, as legal equality falls into place here in the UK, most of the world is still living in the homophobic dark ages. More than 70 countries continue to outlaw homosexuality, with penalties ranging from one year’s jail to life imprisonment. Six Islamist states impose the death penalty, including Saudi Arabia, Iran and Sudan. Of the 191 member states of the UN,  only a handful have repealed all major legal inequalities against LGBT people: the Netherlands, Belgium, Spain, France, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Finland, Canada, New Zealand and, very recently, the UK. No international human rights convention explicitly acknowledges sexual rights as human rights. There is nothing in UN conventions that explicitly prohibits homophobic persecution and protects LGBT people.

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Day off Monday; in lieu of Reading. Boss rings, regardless, saying Capital Queer have invited me to pen another column – someone’s dropped out – deadline, lunchtime! Inspired by Sunday’s fetish event, opt for piece re the law governing SM sex being overly-restrictive; and looking set to get yet more so. Ever since “Operation Spanner” and the subsequent trial in 1990, SM sex that leaves marks that are more than “trifling or transient” - the meaning of which has never been clearly defined and is left to the jury - has technically been illegal. Work to bring about changes to the law as a result of this is being carried out by the Spanner Trust (http://www.spannertrust.org/). Yet SM sex will come under further attack with the introduction of the latest Criminal Justice Bill, which includes a section that will make the possession of certain types of extreme pornography illegal. This will in effect make criminals out of any person who has taken their own images of certain categories of SM activity. Work to limit the effects of this new law is currently being carried out by Backlash (http://www.backlash-uk.org.uk/).

Have an evening class, or – more accurately – a one-on-one “tute” with an LGBT Studies prof, Tuesday night. Some pal of that other old boff who’d run his hand right up my inner thigh over dinner a few weeks back; sounds like they must have got chatting, comparing notes. Says my work has shown great promise. What work, think I; having only at best half tuned in to the ends of a smattering of his randy colleague’s lectures? Says I’d probably come up better under an oral examination. “Look at the exuberance of gay life in Australia,” blurts he, completely unprompted, disappearing behind a bookcase. “It is linked to their beach culture, to a certain ‘larrikin’ tradition in Ozzy history, to the sexual experimentation, or the outback - and to the notion of ‘mateship’,” he continues - his more mature, fuller figure suddenly re-emerging, completely starkers from behind said case, suggesting I might like to be his mate; and would I care to strip off and innocently frisk? Don coat quick and flee.

Relatively quiet Switchboard sesh, Wednesday night. Longest call from a teen recently diagnosed HIV+ and feeling very, very low. Put him in touch with local support groups. Says he’d only rarely practiced safe sex, pre diagnosis; apparently thought only older people had, or caught, HIV. According to a survey by Terrence Higgins Trust to mark the 25^th anniversary of Terry Higgins’ death in 1982, more than one in ten 18–24-year olds think HIV can be passed on through kissing; almost a quarter believe that condoms have holes in them which let HIV through; and more than one in five think there is a cure for HIV. Tellingly, just a third (36%) of all respondents thought they received good sex education at school. Over 17,000 people have died of AIDS to date in the UK; and there are now over 70,000 people here living with HIV. Groups most at risk of HIV in the UK continue to be gay men and the African community.

Almost late for informal Circa social, Thursday eve, after Toby decides to throw a fit and fill a very big protest nappy after not being allowed to actually swim in with the swans in Hyde Park, during feeding. Our kind member host, now in his mid 70s, lays on a lavish spread at his Mayfair mansion. After a delightful soirée, he gives a wee speech, commemorating 40 years since most aspects of homosexuality between two males in private were decriminalized in the UK; quipping it was a shame it came two years too late for him, having served 9 months at HM’s pleasure in 1965, which “somewhat took the swing out of my sixties”!

Not the brightest idea to have a stag party the night before a wedding, one might think – neither for the groom(s) concerned, nor their male guests! So was with trepidation, indeed, that I went along to Josh’s do in Soho, Friday night. Josh got tanked up and up and up; myself deliberately staying pretty abstemious, knowing full well I’d enjoy the morrow’s debacle all the more, stone cold sober.

Civie p finally takes place, Saturday afternoon, at some dodgy gay-run Bayswater hotel, albeit three hours late – the buffet catering reception shifted forward, pre-signing, to allow both Josh and Charlie to at least half sober up before the ceremony itself, tagged on at the end - somewhat desperately - just before the space hire expires. This means both parties are thankfully - due to their incapacities - spared the rather raucous, now preliminary, speeches given by Karl as Best Man; not to mention some truly awful singing by he and some of his queer choral chums – enough to swiftly sober even the drunkest of skunks!

Woken early by the stunning silence, Sunday morn. Quite unnerving not to be roused by the usual neighbourly banging now that my two newlyweds – who met through myself, scarce a few months back; the one a former flatmate, the other my escort-turned-stalker - are off on sunny honeymoon in Gran Can.

Kittens running amuck at Monday morn mews meet; seems to be about 50 of them, with 50 pairs of frowning, angry eyes - now very much open and glaring. Rather unnerving, despite all still being the size of small wind-inducing vol-au-vents, each about a mouthful. Boss very distant; brain somewhere between Pluto and Planet Pussy, in some fluffy far-flung feline nebula. No interest whatsoever in Cardiff; or Essex. Kevin zonked and remote too – doubtless surfing farthest reaches of cyberspace re breastfeeding and how to change nappies late at night.

Fairly typical Switchboard shift, Tuesday eve. Two calls in, a distraught young fella, probably around 14, saying he’d been punched in the playground at school and had his kit stolen whilst showering after games; all because it’s got out that he thinks he might be gay. Says “friend” must have let it slip - though they vehemently deny. And all too common, alas. Gays are being betrayed throughout Britain’s schools – by pupils and staff alike. A major survey by Stonewall has revealed that almost two thirds (65%) of LGB secondary school pupils – that’s around 156,000 young people - have been victims of homophobic bullying. Of those, 92% (143,000) have experienced verbal homophobic bullying; 41% (64,000) physical bullying; and 17% (26,000) death threats.

Have Nutty Neighbour round for dinner Wednesday night, after tough day pitching my queer Circa self straight at bar managers. Says he often closes his “hole” down mid-week, “for a breather”. Good to have his company, anyway! Gets pretty lonesome in the flat since Josh moved next door, with fiancé Charlie, leaving me all alone, just with Mous ‘n Cous. Nutty invites me to join him on a jaunt to next London Fetish Fair, Sunday coming.

Almost choke as read interesting report re US circumcision rate being cut (pardon pun), Thursday, over breakfast. Every year, worldwide, around 10 million Muslims, 1 million all-American boys, 100,000 Jews and sundry others – totting to about 1 in 6 males worldwide - have the foreskins that billions of years of evolution have bestowed upon them, severed from their manhoods in mere seconds. As a chef friend of mine once said: that’s one big bowl of calamari! Circumcision is the most commonly-practiced, yet hotly debated, medical procedure on Earth. Latest stats apparently show, in no small part due to the large influx of the nation’s Asian and Latin immigrants, the US circumcision rate – which peaked at 90% back in the early 60s - has now been razor-slashed to just 57%; in some states, being well below half. That said, some are predicting a fight back – in the light of recent studies suggesting circumcision could well drastically reduce the rate of HIV infection!

Dragged out to club, with Karl, Friday night. Increasingly a mixed blessing. Still enjoy the buzz, even at my age (think am only one over 30 here); but can’t stand the predictable sight of people queuing up to throw themselves at my gymed-up companion, until he finally drops his guard (nay trousers) for one of ‘em. Also hate shouting, just to make selves heard! Doesn’t surprise me at all that 90% of young people experience the first signs of potentially permanent “disco deafness” after just one night out, according to the RNID’s current “Don’t Lose the Music” campaign (http://www.dontlosethemusic.com/) which is calling on the Government to establish a recommended maximum noise exposure level; and which is begging all gig-goers to invest in a pair of reusable earplugs, to stand away from loud speakers and to spend regular “recovery time” in quieter zones. What next? A “Scene Cream” drive, urging sun block ‘n shades to save us queer clubbers from those nasty, ubiquitous, potentially dangerous u/v lamps?

Hooray! Last Pride of the season, Saturday! Kev ‘n I wend our way to the King’s Meadow, in lush Reading - “London’s queer corridor”, yet city state in its own right! Attractions include a pink picnic area, market stalls, info/education zone, funfair, drinks tents, tea tent, plus a full programme of performers. Bravo Berks! Kev also joins me ‘n Nutty at London Fetish Fair on Sunday - to take in the very best of dungeon and fetish designers, showcasing their kinky innovations in a “welcoming and elegant atmosphere that doesn’t break the bank”. All very civilized.

Bit smelly at mews for Monday morning meet. Turns out one of Boss’ tubby Burmans wasn’t actually fat after all, merely pregnant – and let loose in the early hours! Still a very pungent whiff of feline afterbirth. Boss, who’s been up all night, is pleasantly zombie-like, yet alert enough to suggest a photo op: her with blessed litter – tho’ still scarce specks of fluff - for assembled gay press. Also meows, on and on, at Kev - about his stalled revamp of the long-mooted gay pet owner website Circa spin-off. Kev glazes over, likewise weary: also up all night, with a constantly moaning and still heavily laden Em.

Karl getting gayer and gayer by the day at gym: loitering in the alleyway outside the main door cum closing time - that, after spending hour upon hour cruising the steamer. “You’ll vapourize if you spend much more time in here,” I only partly jest, Tuesday eve, as we waft amidst said mist and plot another wee gay getaway – perhaps a mini-cruise around the Channel Islands in 2-3 weeks’ time? Advise him he’s clearly gone way beyond the call of duty with many of the gym’s gay or bi members - complaints starting to reach the manager from a few unwisely targeted straights. En guard!

Desperate call, Wednesday eve, half way through Switchboard stint - gay asylum seeker, landed from some African state, claims people like him are being systematically failed by the UK government. According to an official refusal letter – he can just go straight back to where he came from; and conceal his homosexuality to avoid harm. Doubts government mandarins here even believe he’s gay, for starters: but what’s he supposed to do – give ‘em a quick, heartfelt blowjob?!? For many LGBT asylum seekers, leaving their home country is not a matter of choice – apart from the choice of life over death. Despite legal LGBT-related advances here in the UK, in more than 80 UN member states, consensual acts between same‑sex adults are still criminalized. Many African lesbians flee to the UK and claim asylum because they really are raped or threatened with genital mutilation by members of their families, or their communities, in an attempt to “turn them straight”.

Day off in lieu of recent Pride duties, Thursday. Pop up to Milton Keynes, to view the recently-unveiled statue of Alan Turing - the inspirational mathematician at the heart of Britain’s crucial Enigma-code-breaking successes during World War Two, based at Bletchley Park (http://www.bletchleypark.org.uk/) in Milton Keynes. It’s a one-and-a-half ton, life-size slate rendition of the great man, by internationally-renowned sculptor, Stephen Kettle. Some historians claim Turing’s work helped shorten the war by two years, saving countless lives. In 1952, at a time when homosexuality was illegal in the UK, Turing was convicted of having a sexual relationship with another man - to which he made no defence other than to say he saw nothing wrong in his actions. He was sentenced to a treatment that amounted to chemical castration; and died after biting into an apple he had laced with cyanide. The poignant symbol of the munched apple aptly lives on, to this day - in computer giant Apple’s famous rainbow logo. 

Good Toby sesh, Friday morn. Nipper greets me warmly, arms out-stretched, during the most frosty of handovers. Go to feed swans together in Hyde Park. Guzzles massive juicy strawberries, bigger than a baby’s fists! Also plays splish-splash-splosh in a fountain; get quite soaked. Falls asleep in my arms as carrying him back to Sue’s.

Back to Prides at the weekend; tho’ now in the tail end - thank God! Besuited, hand out Circa flyers with an increasingly knackered Kev at the annual Mardi Gras in Welsh capital, Cardiff, Saturday - in the wonderful setting of Coopers Field. Lots of strapping miners’ sons, with dark sooty looks and chiseled jaws to die upon! Clever, targeted double-whammy of networking back nearer to home, Sunday. First: London Gay Bridge Tournament, in Pimlico – organized by the highly civilized West London Gay Bridge Club (http://www.wlgbc.co.uk/) whose ranks have already been infiltrated by a fair wee smattering of existing Circa members, now surely more to come. Then: pop back to Essex to see my wee ma in the evening, dragging her along to the Chelmsford Gay Day charity fundraiser do, revolving around the county town’s main queer venues: Chicago Rock Café and Smiths2. Upwards of 2,000 sexy gay Essex boys raise oodles of cash for local charities. Sign up a few.