Showing posts with label England. Show all posts
Showing posts with label England. Show all posts
April 25, 2026
Pillion
Watched Pillion at the local Waiheke Island Community Cinema tonight.
It helps trying out what you want and establish your boundaries if you want to have a long term BDSM relationship - or if you want to write a relevant, honest and successful Grindr advert.
Harry Melling's sub focuses as the main character finding out all about himself but it is Alexander Skarsgård who is the catalytic figure in that journey, plus it was as much a project of discovery whether Colin was right for Ray's wants and desires. A relationship as a one-way street is doomed to failure.
Worth watching if you want to get a glimpse of power relationships.
May 20, 2007
London: end of a holiday
The final part of our trip saw us resting up in London after a quite hectic short European tour. All that family stuff and historical detours took it out on us so it was time to relax on the last days before we fly back to New Zealand. There were some items still to be ticked off: the New Zealand war memorial in Hyde Park Corner, which looks better up close than from the vehicles on the roundabout, where you can get only an impressionist glimpse. The dozen steel girders sticking out of the ground look like massive arrows which were fired from Kensington Palace aimed at the Duke of Wellington statue and narrowly missed. But it's the detailing on the individual girders which tell quite a broad story of New Zealand, not just about war and commemoration as the British version does in Whitehall ("To The Glorious Dead")
Then off to the Imperial War Museum to check out the World War I coverage, mainly to compare it to the In Flanders Fields Museum in Ieper which we visited earlier, and my hunch was confirmed that the London version of events was far more jingoistic. It wasn't really surprising since the museum really glorifies all the wars Britain has been in in the past, the name of the venue giving a large clue, instead of being a museum about the concept of war through the ages, illuminating the atrocious nature of human conflict. And this despite having German world war artifacts too.
Then off to the Imperial War Museum to check out the World War I coverage, mainly to compare it to the In Flanders Fields Museum in Ieper which we visited earlier, and my hunch was confirmed that the London version of events was far more jingoistic. It wasn't really surprising since the museum really glorifies all the wars Britain has been in in the past, the name of the venue giving a large clue, instead of being a museum about the concept of war through the ages, illuminating the atrocious nature of human conflict. And this despite having German world war artifacts too.
May 10, 2007
England: infamy! infamy!
Flying back to England after an incredibly lovely sojourn in Denmark, and I wished the Danelaw was still in force. Then we would have been welcomed in England as we were in Denmark: a friendly nod and a warm welcome to the country. Instead we got the third degree by an uppity immigration officer at Gatwick. The interrogation went thus:
The Heathrow IO then was asking me all about Wisley, because she had talked to Ewen before about horticulture. Of course I didn't know anything about that - Wisley is some horticultural centre. Probably put the suspicion on me. Can I help it I'm not the gardener in the family? Why do these immigration people ask all these loaded questions?
By then the neighbouring IO pointed out to him that I was traveling with Ewen and she had finished with him satisfactorily. I had the distinct impression he would have loved to continue the interrogation.
So now I was in a foul mood and seriously considering avoiding traveling to Britain in the future because I can't really be bothered with all that nonsense.
The next morning I had to exchange some currency and was up bright and early at 9am to go to the bank. London prides itself on being the financial capital of the world but that is delusional: I went to the bank and people were able to do their normal day to day banking but the teller told me I had to wait until 9:30am before the forex counter opened. The teller, looking very much like one of those formidable East European matrons that used to staff the Stasi and other communist border patrols, took a suspicious look at me and counted my notes five (five!) times, each marking with a fluoro pen, all while questioning me on my lack of an account with the bank. To quote Catherine Tate: What A Fucking Liberty.
Me: Hello.Last week we had cleared customs at Heathrow in a stopover to Denmark, he could see the stamp in my passport. Boy, do I hate incompetence in officials.
Immigration officer (IO): Your first visit to Britain, is it, Sir?
Me: I was here last week.
The Heathrow IO then was asking me all about Wisley, because she had talked to Ewen before about horticulture. Of course I didn't know anything about that - Wisley is some horticultural centre. Probably put the suspicion on me. Can I help it I'm not the gardener in the family? Why do these immigration people ask all these loaded questions?
IO: And before that?About 60 times in the last 30 years, in fact, plus actually resided in Britain for three years. He no doubt had all that information at his stubby little fingertips.
Me: I was born in Belgium, have traveled to Britain many times before
IO: I see you were born in Gent. Do you have family here?By now I was seriously bored and getting irritated - I was looking around and just knew the mirror behind him was one-way, I have seen the "Airport" programme, these little tin pot Nazis seriously need a dose of Schengen. Don't these guys know terrorists don't come from New Zealand but from up North? And why do they feel offended if you really don't want to stay in their poxy, paranoid and hysterical country? Obviously, the UK has in more ways than one become the 51st state of the Union.
Me: No.
IO: Friends?
Me: Yes.
IO: How long are you staying for?
Me: 10 days.
IO: And then?
Me: Back home.
IO: To New Zealand?
Me: Yes.
By then the neighbouring IO pointed out to him that I was traveling with Ewen and she had finished with him satisfactorily. I had the distinct impression he would have loved to continue the interrogation.
So now I was in a foul mood and seriously considering avoiding traveling to Britain in the future because I can't really be bothered with all that nonsense.
The next morning I had to exchange some currency and was up bright and early at 9am to go to the bank. London prides itself on being the financial capital of the world but that is delusional: I went to the bank and people were able to do their normal day to day banking but the teller told me I had to wait until 9:30am before the forex counter opened. The teller, looking very much like one of those formidable East European matrons that used to staff the Stasi and other communist border patrols, took a suspicious look at me and counted my notes five (five!) times, each marking with a fluoro pen, all while questioning me on my lack of an account with the bank. To quote Catherine Tate: What A Fucking Liberty.
September 28, 2003
Consumer guide for sexually active London guys
Gay London should be familiar stomping ground but scenes, of course, change over the years so it was interesting to explore the unfamiliar and new sites.
The one main change that has occurred is the amount of backrooms and saunas with sex-on-site facilities that have sprung up. This is a major development since the British sex laws didn’t allow it before. Now all you need is a licence from the local council, planning hearings and all. This may lead to some comic situations such as the one where the (mostly gay) clergy of Southwark Cathedral objected to a (straight) fuck club being opened next door. Never mind that the venue currently houses a (gay) club called Hard On (which used to be called Fist). Such are the absurdities of officially sanctioned sex regulations. Or is it payback for all the anti-gay harassment of the past?
What did I sample? First up was Man Bar, which had a boots-only night on. Get in for £7.50 with a free drink, strip and have fun. This is a simple formula and of course it works. Unpretentious, non-attitudinal and uncomplicated fun was had by all.
The saunas are a different scene altogether. Overpriced (£11) with few (free) facilities. The Pleasuredrome had vaulted cubicles, where I several times hit my head on the ceiling, and a tiny video room with a plasma screen, but the videos were in black and white. Colourless porn sure looks arty, but I bet it was unintentional. If you want a private room with several video channels (in colour, I presume) you have to pay extra. The steam room was far too cold and the sauna boxes were overcrowded, but they were actually sufficiently heated. The men came in all shapes and sizes and I was blown away by some tattoos I noticed. One had ‘bitter’ and ‘sweet’ written under each nipple, which sort of made me wonder what scene he was into, but he said he had his done, along with half a dozen others on his chest and arms, when he was straight a decade ago (if this was really true then his nipple tattoos should have read: ‘bitter’ and ‘lager’). He was sure making up for lost time! (That’s when I hit my head on the ceiling).
Chariot’s, a franchised sauna chain with several branches around town, was full of muscle marys, who were doing a spot of live S&M (Stand around & Mimic your own escort advert picture) on Sunday afternoons. Nothing much happened on my watch. Renaming the sauna chain ‘Starfucks’ may be a bit premature.
Contemporary sauna designers should leg it to the Museum of London’s Roman section, where there are scale models of the bathhouses they built for the legionnaires stationed in Londinium. They featured under-floor heating systems, efficient plumbing, spacious rooms with varying temperature levels and a sensible lay out – all far more sophisticated than their 21st century counterparts. They may not have had the porn videos but I am sure that a couple of buff Roman soldiers would have more than made up for that shortcoming!
When exploring the gay side of a city I always like to take Dante as my guide to this inferno. It’s always easy to find the 7th ring where the sodomites have their parties, and in London it’s called the King’s Cross Cruising Club. Now this one was the best value for money, if you discount the free all-you-can-eat buffet of Hampstead Heath. Ring the buzzer at a non-descript boarded up shop front in a lugubrious part of town and £5 gets you into a converted shop and basement where you can pretty much do whatever takes your fancy – but bring your own toys. The men were all very keen and willing, since there was no pretence that anybody was there for anything else than shagging as many men as possible – even though the nibbles and snacks could have fooled you there was some kinky tea party going on. Highly recommended if you have an adventurous outlook in your sex life.
The funny thing was that most of my friends in London were curious to hear about all these places because they have never been there – and my friends are no prudes! I guess it takes a tourist to show the locals where the places to go are, they pretty much stick to cruising on gaydar (sigh! I prefer my meat live, red, erect and throbbing, rather than in byte size).
One disappointment was the lack of gay history in the newly opened Museum in Docklands. Port cities have without fail queer stories to tell but not a squeak here. At least they should have acknowledged the traffic that took place by west end toffs riding on a late bus to the east end for a spot of nookie with the local lads, who worked on the docks or were on leave from the merchant navy. A classic model perfectly illustrating British class society.
The one main change that has occurred is the amount of backrooms and saunas with sex-on-site facilities that have sprung up. This is a major development since the British sex laws didn’t allow it before. Now all you need is a licence from the local council, planning hearings and all. This may lead to some comic situations such as the one where the (mostly gay) clergy of Southwark Cathedral objected to a (straight) fuck club being opened next door. Never mind that the venue currently houses a (gay) club called Hard On (which used to be called Fist). Such are the absurdities of officially sanctioned sex regulations. Or is it payback for all the anti-gay harassment of the past?
What did I sample? First up was Man Bar, which had a boots-only night on. Get in for £7.50 with a free drink, strip and have fun. This is a simple formula and of course it works. Unpretentious, non-attitudinal and uncomplicated fun was had by all.
The saunas are a different scene altogether. Overpriced (£11) with few (free) facilities. The Pleasuredrome had vaulted cubicles, where I several times hit my head on the ceiling, and a tiny video room with a plasma screen, but the videos were in black and white. Colourless porn sure looks arty, but I bet it was unintentional. If you want a private room with several video channels (in colour, I presume) you have to pay extra. The steam room was far too cold and the sauna boxes were overcrowded, but they were actually sufficiently heated. The men came in all shapes and sizes and I was blown away by some tattoos I noticed. One had ‘bitter’ and ‘sweet’ written under each nipple, which sort of made me wonder what scene he was into, but he said he had his done, along with half a dozen others on his chest and arms, when he was straight a decade ago (if this was really true then his nipple tattoos should have read: ‘bitter’ and ‘lager’). He was sure making up for lost time! (That’s when I hit my head on the ceiling).
Chariot’s, a franchised sauna chain with several branches around town, was full of muscle marys, who were doing a spot of live S&M (Stand around & Mimic your own escort advert picture) on Sunday afternoons. Nothing much happened on my watch. Renaming the sauna chain ‘Starfucks’ may be a bit premature.
Contemporary sauna designers should leg it to the Museum of London’s Roman section, where there are scale models of the bathhouses they built for the legionnaires stationed in Londinium. They featured under-floor heating systems, efficient plumbing, spacious rooms with varying temperature levels and a sensible lay out – all far more sophisticated than their 21st century counterparts. They may not have had the porn videos but I am sure that a couple of buff Roman soldiers would have more than made up for that shortcoming!
When exploring the gay side of a city I always like to take Dante as my guide to this inferno. It’s always easy to find the 7th ring where the sodomites have their parties, and in London it’s called the King’s Cross Cruising Club. Now this one was the best value for money, if you discount the free all-you-can-eat buffet of Hampstead Heath. Ring the buzzer at a non-descript boarded up shop front in a lugubrious part of town and £5 gets you into a converted shop and basement where you can pretty much do whatever takes your fancy – but bring your own toys. The men were all very keen and willing, since there was no pretence that anybody was there for anything else than shagging as many men as possible – even though the nibbles and snacks could have fooled you there was some kinky tea party going on. Highly recommended if you have an adventurous outlook in your sex life.
The funny thing was that most of my friends in London were curious to hear about all these places because they have never been there – and my friends are no prudes! I guess it takes a tourist to show the locals where the places to go are, they pretty much stick to cruising on gaydar (sigh! I prefer my meat live, red, erect and throbbing, rather than in byte size).
One disappointment was the lack of gay history in the newly opened Museum in Docklands. Port cities have without fail queer stories to tell but not a squeak here. At least they should have acknowledged the traffic that took place by west end toffs riding on a late bus to the east end for a spot of nookie with the local lads, who worked on the docks or were on leave from the merchant navy. A classic model perfectly illustrating British class society.
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