Shaun Akanbi

A little over six years ago, on Boxing Day 2012, I read in the news about a young black man who had been found murdered in his flat. He wasn't some anonymous stranger. I knew him. Several years earlier, Shaun and I had been, briefly, together.

In the weeks and months that followed, I would learn he had been stabbed to death, and his belongings stolen, by 20-year-old Moroccan Achraf Jandara, who he had met online and invited into his home.

It’s now six years since Shaun was murdered on 22 December 2012. The pain hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s worse.

I can't pretend we were close when he passed. We no longer spoke. In May 2009 he contacted me, out of the blue, to ask if I'd write something for him. I was annoyed that he had only reached out when, it seemed at the time, he wanted something. Annoyed, I ghosted him.

We didn't speak again.

It can feel like there is no one to talk to about the gnawing grief, the sense of loss, the futility of his death. The guilt at snubbing him. No one likes to talk about grief, least of all someone else's. So you dwell on it, alone, and the grief metastasises.

In my darkest moments, I find myself fighting back thoughts of what his last minutes must have been like; what it must have been like with this stranger he invited into his home. Was it quick? Did he suffer? Sometimes my mind lurches, involuntarily, to the worst possible scenarios. I find myself almost gasping for breath, my heart racing. I stifle a sob. He was just a little guy, five foot nothing, looking for some fun with another cute boy, not... whatever happened. Not that. I don't want to know exactly what happened, how it happened. I couldn't stand that.

In the days after reading of his death, I wrote, clumsily, about the afternoon we spent in Shepherd's Bush market. The incident with the kid's tracksuit still makes me smile, but something that happened afterwards has slowly taken hold in my memory of him. We were walking along Goldhawk Road, past a sportswear store. Across the road, two black youths, walking in the other direction, were staring menacingly. I asked Shaun if he knew them. He replied no. They know I'm not from this area, he said, darkly. Looking back, it was almost like a premonition.

I once Googled his name, and stumbled on various articles about his death. Some on Nigerian "news" outlets, and on forums and message boards. Don't do it. The comments are beyond vile, the worst homophobic bile you can imagine.

His Twitter page is still there. So is his Instagram. His last Tweet, two days before he died, is about Kat Slater, a character in EastEnders. That will always be his last Tweet, a young boy's musings on a soap queen. Kat Slater's story ended for him that Friday night. He didn't live to see Monday's episode. But Kat Slater is still on our screens, and every time I see her, I'm reminded of Shaun.

I keep getting drawn back to his Twitter page. It's still there, exactly the way he left it. His voice echoing across the years. One of these days it might disappear, and then it really will be like he's gone. I don't know what I'll do then.

I will come home to you, or, if you will, come home to me and I will wait for you

A r t

S k o o l
A r t  i s  n o t  a  t h i n g ,  i t  i s  a  w a y .

Arguments are to be avoided: they are always vulgar and often convincing

L E F T O V E R S
W  R  I  T  I  N  G    B  O  R  E  S    M  E    S  O

I've tried with Orange Is The New Black. I started watching a month or so back, galvanised by the hype (and a free trial of Netflix), but it's just not working for me. And I love prison shows. I've watched Oz from start to finish (several times over), and I'm still making my way through cult classic Prisoner (Bea Smith is everything). But OITNB - with its tepid lead Piper (who has the charisma of a limp lettuce leaf), and weird tone (sometimes it's like watching Saved By The Bell) - leaves me bored and confused. There might be some truth there, but the telling is self-indulgent and hamfisted. I'll stick with early '80s Wentworth Detention Centre, and return visits to Oswald State Penitentiary.

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Last week I wrote about being won over by streaming. But in this era of peak TV, is it a case of too much of a good thing? All those shows we've been told are the best TV show of the year/decade/ever are instantly available, with hundreds, if not thousands, of episodes. That's another reason I'm bailing on OITNB - why waste time with a show that's only barely lukewarm? Another show I'm struggling with is Wayward Pines, so brilliant in its first season, but whose sophomore effort has turned to shit - despite the presence of Djimon Hounsou (I spelt his name without having to resort to Google!) - and the delicious Christopher Meyer (left). In fact, Wayward Pines' second season, tragically, is a textbook example of flogging a dead horse.

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Outrage and controversy. The keyboard activists love it. First of all we had infamous bigot Bette Midler's "transphobic" Tweet (it wasn't. It was a Caityawn Jenner-phobic comment. I'm with her, and I don't mean the Rethuglican), and now Coronation Street has been tried and convicted (by social media) of racism. Here's the incriminating evidence: Eva Price, played by Catherine Tyldesley, visits Audrey’s hair salon, where she remarks: “I have more roots than Kunta Kinte. No idea who that is, by the way, just something my mum used to say.” Let's set aside the obvious, that is, that it's not an attack on Kunta Kinte, but a knowing wink at half the audience about the dizzy blonde character, and the other half (I'm being generous) who actually don't know who Kunta Kinte is. You can hear the cry go up from living rooms up and down the land, "What the 'eck's a Coonder Kinder?" "I think he was on The X Factor." I'd like to see some actual casual racism from characters in our soaps, because guess what, that's what happens in real life. Let's see that. Let's be real.

But Bette apologised for her supposed trans-gression, and a Coronation Street spokesperson has said, “We apologise if this dialogue has caused offence.” No apology necessary, guys. Professing outrage doesn't mean they're entitled to an apology. However hard it is, tell them to go f**k themselves. Now, Ellen's Bolt meme... That's another story.

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What's the point of ubiquitous gay porn star Johnny Rapid (right)? I get there's a market for everything, and he's kind of cute, in a "walk-on drug dealer in an episode of Law & Order" kind of way, but he hasn't ever seen the inside of a gym, or the rays of the sun. He isn't even a halfway decent performer. And by all accounts, he's a pretty revolting human being, too. Make America great again: get rid.

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Do you ever watch The Golden Girls, or its mid-2000s tribute act Noah's Arc, and wish you were Rose/Noah, Blanche/Ricky, Dorothy/Chance, or Sophia/Alex? Not exactly that you were them, as such, but that you had what they had. I have some amazing friends, but they don't knit together like The Golden Girls. I wish they did; I'd love a close gay family, not one that's scattered and disparate. One is in the thrall of a sort of Primark RuPaul. Two others are frenemies, locked in a competition over men (Brandon steals Kris's boyfriends, or vice versa, depending on who's telling the tale). And recently, I arranged a nocturnal adventure with my two nearest and dearest, which ended in a meltdown so epic it stopped traffic. Literally. Another friend won't speak to me when he's in a relationship ("Ray", who you may remember from this post)... As Elaine once said in Seinfeld, "I gotta get some new friends."

Arguments are to be avoided: they are always vulgar and often convincing

L E F T O V E R S
W  R  I  T  I  N  G    B  O  R  E  S    M  E    S  O

It's unfathomable that the monstrous Stephen Bear has won Celebrity Big Brother. But then the show's viewers - most of whom are women - hate women. The strength of character (in the context of Big Brother) displayed by Aubrey O'Day and Renee Graziano, in the face of un-Bear-able behaviour, means they were classed as "bitches", whilst Bear's behaviour, no matter how vile, was forgiven: he's "just a lad", after all, "just being himself". Women are condemned as bitches if they stand up to bullying men, and whores if they play by their rules. Big Brother's viewership enforce these rules with depressing predictability, making sure to evict every "bitch" or "whore" who steps out of line.

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Post-Olympic blues? No need! There were IAAF meets in Lausanne and Paris this weekend. Olympians Pascal Martinot-Lagarde (better known to me as bae), Dimitri Bascou, and gold medalist Omar McLeod all competed in the Men's 110m Hurdles, together with KAOS favourite David Oliver (he of the insane deltoids, and obsessive Arsenal fan) who sadly wasn't present in Rio. Seriously, check out his Twitter - you'd never guess he was a hurdler, such is the volume of posts about Arsenal... Neither Oliver or Martinot-Lagarde did well, and sadly, I didn't see any of my new athletics crush Almaz Ayana, although Natasha Hastings was there (with Rio fever, I've actually started paying attention to the girls. Turns out they're just as good at it as the boys). Berlin hosts the next track and field event on 3rd September.

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Over the last few weeks I've finally embraced streaming, and reluctantly accepted the death of DVD. Kind of. I've been watching The Office on Netflix, despite owning it on DVD. It's just easier than fiddling with discs, trying to remember which one you're on (Netflix does that for you) - although I suspect they've mucked about with the aspect ratio... But I won't throw away my physical boxset of The Office, because there's no guarantee it'll always be on Netflix. The trouble with streaming is you sacrifice control for convenience. I don't want a faceless corporation deciding what I can and can't watch.

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Over the weekend I finally reached out to a close friend, one from whom I've increasingly become estranged. It had been a while. He can't bear confrontation, and I tend to charge at it. I didn't know what to say, and so for a while I said nothing. I still got it wrong; saying things I shouldn't have done, and regretting it afterwards. But the shadows of a false prophet, a hack poet, and a world of unresolved hurt and injustice still loom large. How do you move past that?

Finally, congratulations to my beloved bestie, vlogger Rogue "Marbie" Scott, who today is celebrating his 8th wedding anniversary. #MarriageEquality

Puff Johnson

Back in December, I discovered that Puff Johnson had died back in 2013. I had long admired her, and often wondered what had become of her.

The girl from Detroit, who had a couple of hits in 1996 (and released just one album, Miracle), had moved to South Africa in 2009, and it was only there that her death made the news.

But Puff always meant a lot to me. Her hits coincided with my formative teen years, and she was the soundtrack to early entanglements. Her two big hits - Forever More and Over And Over - didn't fade into the mists of time, and I've continued listening to her music in the twenty years since she disappeared.

And so, when I finally heard that she had died (I read about it on Wikipedia: the first line of her page is a dead giveaway: "Ewanya Johnson. December 10, 1972 – June 24, 2013"), I was horrified that no one else cared. No one even remembered her. Not even those for whom '90s R&B is whispered about with reverence. I asked friends. I asked colleagues at work. No one remembered. It was almost as if Puff Johnson was a figment of my imagination.

Then came the news that David Bowie had died. As much as Puff Johnson was a fixture of my teen years, Bowie was an iconic figure for people of a certain age, and '80s kids who liked him in Labyrinth. But I didn't get him. He was someone else's hero.

(When I first arrived in London, I lived for a time directly adjacent to Lambeth Hospital on Landor Road, around the corner from Bowie's first home at 40 Stansfield Road in Brixton. My boyfriend at the time would eventually end up in that hospital, sectioned under the Mental Health Act.)

Endless coverage has been devoted to Mr Bowie. So I'm writing here about Puff Johnson, a black girl from the Motor City who mattered a lot to a teenage boy twenty years ago. Maybe to you too, and you forgot about her. Look her up on YouTube.

She was good.

Michael Johnson

Michael Johnson - aka Tiger Mandingo - has been sentenced to thirty years in jail for not disclosing his HIV status.  Once upon a time, I knew a "Tiger Mandingo". This is my story.

Just over ten years ago, I spent the night with a man I met online, maybe on Gaydar (in the age of the app, does anyone still use websites to hook-up?) He was a professional male model, and although he was nearly twenty years older than me, he had the body of Tyson Beckford in his prime. And so, with Maxwell's Embrya playing in the background (as if I needed mood music) we got down to business. This guy really pushed my buttons. Maybe it was the age gap, his jaw-dropping body (and jaw-breaking- ), his swanky City apartment, his job (A. Fucking. Male. Model), I don't know. But in the heat of the moment (yeah, that's my excuse. Sorry Ma), I went in bareback.

I won't lie. It was fucking incredible. Even though I was at the peak of my playa phase, and had several prime cuts of beef on the go, this was the one. And despite what happened next, my night with the Male Model remains one of my personal Greatest Hits, up there with the Jamaican baller whose girlfriend came knocking during play, and [redacted to protect individuals from incrimination]. He invited me back a week later, and this time, the stereo was silent. Maxwell wasn't around for the shit that was about to come. "There's something I need to tell you," the Male Model said. "I'm HIV-positive."

This wasn't the most welcome news, and yeah, I was taken aback, momentarily, but not for long. I wanted more of that juicy, supermodel ass. So we fucked again. Yes, it was bareback. I figured that the damage had already been, I might as well enjoy myself. I was very young, and very horny.

My irresponsible escapades weren't completely uninformed. I'm a top, and so the risk of contracting HIV through unprotected anal sex is much less than if I were a bottom. In fact, I still find it hard to understand how the virus can pass from a bottom to a top, and there doesn't seem to be a lot of information about it out there, aside from assurances of, "well, it can happen."

In the coming weeks and months, however, the blood slowly drained away from one head, to the other. Yes, my brain took over. What if? I wondered. What if he's given me the bug? Realisation gave way to cold terror, which eventually turned into a sort of grim acceptance of the reality: I had had unprotected sex with someone who was HIV-positive. Despite being a top, I was fucked.

It was two years before I finally dragged up the courage to get tested. The results were negative. I didn't have it. I'd gotten away with it! But two years of my life had passed by in a state of barely suppressed panic. Every cold, every ache, every pain... Was this it? Was it starting? So that relief at "getting away with it" turned to anger. Not at my dumb horny self, but at the Male Model. The more I thought about it, the more I blamed him. Why didn't he tell me? Why didn't he tell me? WHY DIDN'T HE TELL ME?

I wrote an article about the episode, in which I published his full name and pictures. I wanted everyone to know about this evil monster who had tried to infect me. That article remained on KAOS for several years, and I deeply regret it.

Years went by. Three of my closest friends - all of them young, black gay men - either became HIV-positive, or became infected by the virus. At some point I took down the article about the Male Model. And tonight, I read that Michael Johnson - aka Tiger Mandingo - had been sentenced to thirty years in prison for infecting one former partner with HIV, and exposing three others to the virus. I feel nothing but deep sorrow for Johnson, and a burning rage at the judiciary for handing him what can only be described as a cruel and unusual punishment.

So what's changed? Shouldn't I be on the side of his so-called victims? Or am I now biased because my own brothers are now living with this disease? No. What's changed is that I'm not a stupid fucking kid anymore. I grew up. I overcame my anger and realised that it wasn't the Male Model who was to blame for exposing me to infection: guess what, it takes two to tango. The Male Model didn't rape me, just like Michael Johnson didn't rape the men who willingly allowed him to do them bareback.

We were all of us grown men who knew what we were doing, and we all knew that there was risk attached to our sexual escapades. I could have put on a condom when I fucked the male model. I didn't, because it made the sex more pleasureable. My bad. For the pleasure of bareback sex with a college wrestler, Johnson's partners - who bottomed for him - took even bigger risks than I did. But Michael Johnson will pay the highest price. His "victims" will live normal lives - yes, even the one guy he infected with HIV will live a relatively normal life - but this young kid's life has been completely destroyed. He was remiss in not informing his partners that he was HIV-positive, but the real crime is the criminal lack of accountability shown by his "victims". They should all be deeply ashamed of what they have done to him.

RuPaul, Michelle Visage and fantastic Katie Hopkins

Michelle Visage and RuPaul think right wing bigot Katie Hopkins is the best thing since sliced bread. She thinks "migrants are like cockroaches". Nearly a thousand Africans - men, women and children - drowned in the Mediterranean last week trying to reach Europe. Why are our idols siding with the people who think they deserve all they get?

IN MY DAY job, which involves dealing with the great British public, I've been called a "fucking immigrant". And, of course, that's exactly what I am: three times over. I've been a "fucking immigrant" in Perth, in New York, and here in London.

I'm gay, too, but in a world where gay usually means white and native. White American gay. White British gay. White Australian gay. If you're born in the country you live in, you're always a rung up from the next guy. And if you're white, you're golden. If you're not white, but you're "born and bred here", you're still better off than the guy just off the boat.

I mention this because there's a disconnect between those who speak for us as LGBT people, and real life. The celebrity gay, the gay artist - regardless of their distant humble backgrounds - don't understand the struggles of ordinary civilians. Just look at Dolce & Gabbana. Italian politician Nichi Vendola said of the wealthy rag trade queens, "I think that from their lofty social rank they don’t really understand what it means to say to live in a country where homophobia kills and the deficit of rights weighs on a lot of lives." And straight ally Madonna has just feted infamous antigay bigot Margaret Thatcher. A well known playwright and director of my acquaintance thinks the solution to all our problems is to write a play about it. Who goes to see plays?

And then there's Michelle Visage, a judge on RuPaul's Drag Race, who earlier this year entered the Celebrity Big Brother house to represent the LGBT community, despite being neither L, G or even B. And probably not T. In the house, she formed a mean girls gang with infamous rightwing loudmouth Katie Hopkins. Visage claimed that she was geared up to hate Hopkins before the show, but found she "liked" her once she got to know her. Presumably, she would have been best mates with Adolf Hitler - that great artist and dog lover - despite all the business with the Jews and the ovens. It's unclear if Visage challenged any of Hopkins' hateful bile, but what she did do (led by the nose by Hopkins) was bully the crazy gay guy (Perez Hilton). Nice.

I get why Visage would gravitate to Hopkins. Hopkins is, essentially, a drag queen, a grotesque who spews out vitriol, sort of like Bianca del Rio. And that's fun. I enjoyed hate-watching Hopkins on The Apprentice. But by the time of CBB, I knew what her game was. She had successfully positioned herself as a social commentator, with her appearances on This Morning, and her tabloid column in Rupert Murdoch's poisonous comic The Sun. By "liking" Hopkins, Visage is effectively lending credence to Hopkins opinions. Saying "I don't agree with her, but as a person, I like her" is allying herself to Hopkins. It's celebrity endorsement. Visage is in showbiz, she knows the score.

In this month's Attitude magazine, RuPaul Charles says Katie Hopkins is "fantastic". The "fantastic" Katie Hopkins has just wrote in The Sun, “These migrants are like cockroaches. They might look a bit ‘Bob Geldof’s Ethiopia circa 1984’, but they are built to survive a nuclear bomb,” and advocated using gunships on them. Just 48 hours later, some 900 hundred desperate migrants drowned in the Mediterranean. Babies, children, men and women, dead.

Both RuPaul and Michelle Visage should be ashamed of themselves. Having bent over backwards to praise Katie Hopkins, Visage - and RuPaul - should now denounce her. Unless they think it's okay to applaud desperate African migrants drowning at sea. 

Don't Ever Wipe Tears Without Gloves

WHAT I WATCHED

LAST NIGHT

WORDS BY ZEON KANE

I haven't slept the last few nights. The death - the prolonged, painful death - of a beautiful young Swedish boy has been playing on my mind. Rasmus died from AIDS complications in 1989. But that's too much information, I'm jumping way ahead. Already, you're tuning out. You don't want to think about young gay men dying horrible AIDS deaths; wasting away to skeletons, blinded, riddled with tumours. My own boyfriend - "clean", successful in his career, and In A Relationship (albeit with me, poor sod) - refuses to watch any of the many recent films about AIDS. During Don't Ever Wipe Tears Without Gloves, I asked him why, and he said, pointedly, "the danger of a single story", referring to Chimamanda Adichie's TED talk.

It made complete sense to me. He doesn't want the pain and horror of the past shackling him. He's Zimbabwean; a gay, African immigrant in Great Britain. He's got more than enough prejudice and preconceived ignorance to deal with. The gay stuff, he can jettison that. Easy. He's negative. His best friend is negative. I'm negative. AIDS doesn't need to hold him back. It's old stuff, forgotten. The future is now.

So what makes me different? I'm also an '80s baby, and an immigrant kid (twice over) too. Why do I need to dwell on AIDS? I've watched How To Survive A Plague, We Were Here, and Common Threads. I sobbed uncontrollably during HBO's The Normal Heart. I'm a Dallas fan. When I first watched it - on DVD - I Googled the cast, and was devastated to learn how several young, virile male cast members were AIDS victims. I know all about Hemphill, and Mapplethorpe, and Vito, and Gia. And it hurts; it kills me. It leaves a sickening, black hole inside me. Scores of fallen soldiers, lost forever... But still, I have to know more. I greedily devour every new entry in the catalogue. Dallas Buyers Club, Don't Ever Wipe Tears Without Gloves... Why, I wonder? Why do I feel the need to subject myself to Longtime Companion? Does facing the past honour the ancestors, the thousands of brothers lost too soon? Does stepping up to the cliff-face, facing the horror of the past head on, no matter how painful, mean something? I don't know, but I have to do it. I have to be a witness.

Don't Ever Wipe Tears Without Gloves puts us at Ground Zero, opening with an AIDS victim writhing in agony in a hospital bed. But its non-linear structure cleverly takes us back to this kid's childhood, to a family holiday. It does the opposite of The Normal Heart, which opens on Fire Island, inside an already thriving gay community, its players well and truly "in the life". Tears, on the other hand, delves into the past of our protagonists Benjamin and Rasmus, before breaking us into The Life. Together, we take those first terrifying steps, experience that first gasp of fresh air. That makes a huge difference; The Normal Heart talks about loss; Tears talks about the promise of a life - The Life - and then snatches it away. It talks about all those young gay men who never had a chance of a life, who might have had just a brief taste of it, between the repression of a closeted adolescence, and the freedom of the big city. It's in this detail that Tears is truly devastating: It makes it personal.

Rasmus is so young, so new and fresh and full of hope, a living, breathing baby gay. This beautiful kid, coming from the sticks, tells us everything about the scourge of AIDS. Rasmus tells us about the boys who loved too much.

Tears is also ruthlessly effective in telling us about the other victims of AIDS: of the men forced to watch their lovers disintegrate, and their families. Tears depiction of Rasmus's doting father is particularly effective. And then there's the draft dodgers: Rasmus's uncle stayed in the closet, stayed behind in that little suffocating village. He didn't get "the plague"; but there's a price attached to that, too, something expertly punched home in the finale.

This Stockholm story is also eerily historically effective. So deeply into the '80s does it take us that when, during the third concluding instalment a laptop appears, it's deeply disorientating. Each of the three episodes opens with stock footage of Stockholm in the early '80s. Boy, it worked for me.

It's 2014, and two of my best friends are HIV-positive. Numerous acquaintances, boys I once chatted to online, are too. They're all in their twenties, early thirties. We're still at war. But those two close friends, my little gay family, they'll be okay. They ain't going anywhere. With the way I treat my liver, they'll outlast me.

I look back at the last twenty years and I think, boy, somehow I got away with it. I've had so much unprotected sex in my life - some of it with HIV-positive guys - but I got away with it. I've sat in waiting rooms waiting for test results, and came out breathing a sigh of relief. Maybe it's because I'm a top (yeah, I know that's no get out of jail free card), maybe those bottoms were undetectable. But I got away with it. 

So, I can't look away, and pretend AIDS doesn't exist, as some do. I want to remember our ancestors, those lost boys, the ones who didn't ever stand a chance. Boys like you and me. I want to think about the unbearable horror of their loss. I want to feel something, no matter how much it makes me cry. You should watch Tears, and cry, and feel something for our lost boys, too. It hurts, it really does, but it matters. Wipe away your tears, and face the past.

Louise Jameson saved my life

Suicide is the number one exit strategy for troubled gay teens. It was nearly mine. Looking back, I know what - and who - saved my life.

EARLIER THIS year, I saw a play called Gutted. Twice. And were it not for the burdensome intrusion of work, I'd have seen it a third time. Maybe more. This awesomely hypnotic piece of theatre (about four London Irish brothers facing up to the abuse wrought on them by their now deceased father) starred Louise Jameson, who in 1977 happened to play Leela in Doctor Who. A series of unlikely coincidences - about which I won't bore you - opened up the possibility of meeting Ms. Jameson in the flesh, which led me to think about what I'd actually say to this accomplished actress, for whom Doctor Who was just one small part of her career. Perhaps, "Ms Jameson, I'd just like you to know - it's not a big deal or anything - but you saved my life..."

Perth, Western Australia.

In 1977 I hadn't yet been born, but in 1990 I was a sensitive kid still in single digits, who suddenly found himself transposed from troubled Northern Ireland - with its bombs and barbed wire and rubber bullets - to the wonderful land of Oz. Sounds like a good swap, right? Well, not quite. It was Oz (sort of): somewhere on the bottom flank of planet Earth, arid Western Australia, seething with rabid Aussie nationalism and xenophobia, where the kids my age knew only of surfing, and heavy metal music. To white Australia - and it was white, relentlessly - I was the second most dirtiest thing imaginable: an immigrant. We grew here, you flew here, they said. An IRA terrorist had infiltrated the blond and blonde Aussies; it's a shame I was too naive to understand the significance of the invisible Aborigine, white Australia's most loathsome charge, or the meaning of the words "genocide" and "invasion".

The sense of desolation was crippling. The bullying - and it was bad, me against a whole country - was one thing, but having everything familiar, everything I loved ripped away was something else entirely. Suddenly, the town I grew up in, the family and friends I knew, the food I ate, and TV I watched, were gone, blotted out forever. Oz wasn't a yellow brick road and Munchkins, it was an unforgiving alien landscape under a baking hot sun, blighted by swarms of flies, punctuated by a creepy national anthem. It was like Nazi Germany and the Hitler Youth. Advance Australia fair! Foreigners out! Floundering in the unforgiving Aussie surf, this sensitive queer kid was about to go under.

ABC ident 1991.

Then, one day in the winter of 1990, Doctor Who popped up on the television. Doctor Who - on Australian TV! A miracle! Back home in the dying days of the '80s, I had been an avid fan of Doctor Who (it had also been, as I later learned, the dying days of Doctor Who). I had been gripped by adventures of cheetah people, of legendary knights in the present day, and homicidal clowns, where the estates of the National Trust were stalked by Cybermen, a benighted planet of women where you had to be happy or die, and a tower block in the future called Paradise Towers patrolled by murderous cleaning machines... It fired my imagination, and I loved it to bits, even though no one at school did. Doctor Who, at that time, was deeply out of fashion, and brainless American fare like The A Team was in.

Doctor Who in this barren wasteland of suburban Australia was the least likely thing on earth, but suddenly here it was on the ABC (the Australian Broadcasting Corporation) at 5.30 p.m., Monday to Thursday, a window to home, if not a way back. It was 1990, before streaming, before set-top boxes, before DVD. There was only VHS, which even then was expensive (for a 10-year-old, at any rate). The first serial was 1977's Image of the Fendahl. This time capsule of  a story had me transfixed. It was, I'd later learn, also one of Louise Jameson's earliest shows.

The ABC screened several key seasons of late 1970s Doctor Who, and later most of the 1980s in a graveyard 4.30 a.m. slot. Yeah, I woke up early for those. But right at the beginning, it was Louise Jameson and Tom Baker who were there, when I was most lost, when I really had nothing and no one. Jameson's Leela - the outsider, the alien abroad - came along at exactly the right time. She was everything to that lost queer kid.

Looking back, I can see that those repeats saved me. You might say, "It's just a T.V. show", but it was a drowning man's life raft. When faced with extreme trauma, some of us adapt and conform (my brothers and sister did), and some of us find a temporary escape. Some of us seek out the ultimate exit strategy. Doctor Who was my escape, without it I'd have gone under, just one more gay kid for whom suicide was the only way out. Instead, I found a wonderful fantasy world I could retreat into, and right there on T.V., a character I could truly relate to, Louise Jameson's powerful outsider Leela.

Some twenty-five years later, I found myself watching this wonderful actress on stage in London, a world away from the horrors of Oz, in a play written and directed by the friend of the wonderful friend who finally rescued me from Oz (that's another story). I didn't have the nerve to say anything afterwards; I'm still damaged, still dented by all those ugly years in White Australia. "You haven't changed. Still finding menace in your own shadow," as the second Doctor says in The Five Doctors.

So, Louise Jameson, in the unlikely event you ever read this, I'd like to say thank you for being amazing, in 1977, in 1990, and again in 2013. When you were Leela, you saved this queer kid's life.

Whatever happened to Joan Crawford?

LIKE MANY an impressionable young gay boy, I've lately become fascinated by Joan Crawford, "the ultimate movie star".

It started with the film Mommie Dearest (the 1981 biopic, of sorts, in which Joan is played with scenery-chewing relish by Faye Dunaway), and progressed with Whatever Happened To Baby Jane? (1962), Joan's last great picture, in which she starred alongside her nemesis, Bette Davis.

I've seen (or should that be "endured"?) Mommie Dearest several times now, and as entertaining as it is, it always leaves me feeling like I've heard just a Chinese whisper of the truth. From a great distance. With a motorcycle revving in the background. Who was Joan Crawford, really? How did this huge movie star become the laughing stock she is today? Is it all the fault of Mommie Dearest?

Much of the damage to Joan's reputation occurred towards the end of her career, beginning, perhaps, with some of the cheesy, B-movie publicity for Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?, and subsequent pictures like Berserk (1967). That her final appearance on the big screen was Trog (1970) doesn't help. But perhaps the greatest blow to the woman who was once Hollywood's biggest star is adopted daughter Christina's damning book Mommie Dearest, and worse, the film version of that book; Christina accuses Joan of mental and physical child abuse. Even those who don't know who Joan Crawford is can recite, "No more wire hangers!"

No one can really know for sure what went on in Joan Crawford's house - Christina and Christopher both hate her, whilst the other two flatly deny the allegations their older sibling has made - but the bottom line is there's no dignity or honour in Christina's bitter, lifelong campaign to destroy her mother. I wonder if she's ever really wondered what life would have been like had Joan not adopted her? I suspect it's the lack of material remuneration that lies at the heart of Christina's mission (Joan left nothing for her, or Christopher, in her will, writing "It is my intention to make no provision herein for my son Christopher or my daughter Christina for reasons which are well known to them.")

It's said that the Paramount film Mommie Dearest finished Faye Dunaway's hitherto stellar career. If that's true, then there's a certain justice there. Call it just deserts for her involvement in that devastating assault.

My fascination with Joan has extended to tracking down - YouTube, thank you! - those now-poignant dying gasps of Miss Crawford's career. There can be found what purports to be the last footage of her before she withdrew from the public eye, and her performance in The Sixth Sense, an execrable TV show. These clips are there for us to jeer and giggle at, or at least pity the poor cow. But here is a woman - more than that, the ultimate movie star - swallowing her pride and getting on with it, still giving her best despite the reduced circumstances she has found herself in, and working to the bitter end. That's not something to pity, or laugh at. That's strength.

So why is Joan Crawford so ridiculed now? Yes, Mommie Dearest plays a big part, but more so, I think, is the ageism our society is steeped in, and Hollywood revels in. Even more than that, is the unabashed, naked misogyny in jeering at a beautiful woman who dared to get older, who did swallow her pride and take the scraps the industry threw to her.

There's nothing shameful about her last appearances in awful TV shows and movies like Trog. What is shameful is the industry's treatment of her, and the public's talent for delighting in humiliation. And we should all be ashamed of the manner in which women are treated - from cradle to grave - and in Joan Crawford's case, those close to her who still seek to punish her ought to be especially ashamed.

In a recent interview, Christina Crawford was asked if she ever watched any of her mother's movies. "No," she replied. The irony is that Mommie Dearest has launched me - and no doubt many others - on a journey of discovery, one that takes in all of Joan Crawford's long career. It is her films that cinephiles will remember, long after Mommie Dearest is forgotten.

Shaun Akanbi

Photo credit: Urban Shotz Photography.

THE DAY AFTER Christmas. "Kilburn murder victim identified as Shaun Akanbi," the Boxing Day headline read.

Below the headline, a picture of a boy I briefly dated, several years ago. "A post-mortem examination gave the cause of death as multiple stab wounds to the torso."

I hadn't seen Shaun in years, but we were once close. We were never the love of each other's lives, but for a brief moment in time, we belonged to each other.

Even after we went our separate ways (amicably. No drama. It just fizzled out), I was aware of him, peripherally, out there in the world. He was studying law when I knew him, but he went on to found Billy Boyce fashion, whose clothes media outlets have been at pains to point out have been worn by various celebrities (hijacking a story about a boy who's been killed. Their names overshadowing his). But Shaun was a success, doing what he loved.

Shaun back in the day.

No one seems to know yet what happened to him this Christmas. Will knowing the how, the why, make it any easier? No. But it's hell not knowing.

I remember the last night I spent with Shaun, all those years ago. We walked around Shepherd's Bush market looking for a tracksuit for him. Shaun was a tiny little guy, and couldn't find anything to fit. We went into a shop selling kid's clothes, underneath the railway arches, where he found something that fitted him. A tracksuit for a child. It seemed so funny at the time.

I'll always remember that day.

The Guest Spot

Longtime readers of ka-os|theory might remember this post, from nearly three years ago. My good friend Ray had just told me had been diagnosed as HIV-positive. It's been a bumpy ride for Ray since then, and I asked him if he'd like to write about his experiences for ka-os|theory. This is his story.

I WRITE THIS entry as I lie in my bed with carrots, houmous and a bottle of wine. Not the healthiest of drinks to be drinking for someone who’s HIV positive, I hear you say. While that’s true, this is something that is kind of helping me write as I now go through the memory of what I’ve been through over the last two and a half years. The diagnosis, the medication, the side effects, the blood tests, the close calls, the tears... the list goes on.

Have a problem with interracial dating? Take a look in the mirror

Have you ever noticed that people who have a problem with "interracial dating" are just plain fugly? Here's today's top tip, kids: hot boys want hot boys, regardless of their race, and if you look like Shrek, you'd better lower your expectations, and stop blaming that hot white boy for getting his claws into the hot brotha you can't have.

Zeric Seymor-Armenteros

Oh oh - here we go again. A black guy has come out and said that he prefers white guys to "people in the African American community."

In this case it's a model called Zeric, interviewed on vlog Pillow Talk. Cue a tsunami of apoplectic outrage from The Righteous Brothas (you know - those self-appointed righteous guardians of black manhood, who think it's their job to police who fucks who) on blogs and vlogs all over the World Wide Web. Because, you know, this is America, and The Righteous Brothas don't believe in personal preference. Despite interracial marriage being legal in all US states since 1967, some people still can't break out of the "stick with your own kind" mentality. A Brotha's gots to be with a Brotha, and if he isn't, you can bet The Brothas (or that high priestess of hate, Jill Scott) will have something to say about it.

Remember when American news anchor Don Lemon came out? Shortly after that, the news that his boyfriend was white shocked and appalled certain quarters of the black gay community. Read, if you dare, the comments sections of blogs like Rod 2.0 and Living Out Loud with Darian, where you'll discover a tiny, narrow-minded world of race-baiting haterade.

Here's a simple truth: guys who have a problem with interracial relationships are, more often than not, fugly trolls past their use-by date.

Here's an another simple truth: The single most valuable commodity in the gay world is sex appeal, and that overrides race. If you're an ugly troll - say, the revolting love child of Kanye West and Cee Lo Green - you're just going to hate the fact that that hot white boy has got the hot black boy you can't have - and never will have. Because the sad fact is, even if that hot black guy was into the brothas, he still wouldn't want you, Shrek. He'd want Tyson Beckford. As Zeric says, "I love my black boys" - just not those pearl-clutching queens who sit in judgement on others.

This fact is bourne out by Zeric's haters. Lord ha' mercy, these queens are f**kin' ugly. Face it kids, righteous ain't pretty. That's why the world of blogs and forums is heaven for the racial separatist - the kids who look like the odious queens in the I Hate Zeric video, look like that.

One of the video's contributors says of Zeric, "Models should be seen and not heard." Oh, the irony!

They don't really hate Don Lemon's boyfriend, or the hot white boys Zeric is hookin' up with. What they hate is the ugly reflection in the mirror, and the fact that Zeric and Don just don't want them.

A picture is worth a thousand words

I no longer think about Taylor everyday, as I did in the weeks after his death. I'd be paralysed if I did. Grieving is new to me, never having had someone close die on me. That terrible pain that comes first, the crying, the terrifying sense of loss, waking up and realising he's not there anymore, slowly subsiding to a dull pain.

Now, I see his ghost on my blog: Taylor Siluwé is still a follower of ka-os|theory on Google Friend Connect, on Facebook. Or I see a comment he once left on a post on my blog, or someone else's. His books are on my bookcase. A picture, something, and I remember. It hurts, but I don't want to stop hurting, because that would mean pushing him to the back of my mind, or worse, forgetting.

A day or two ago, a picture popped up on Facebook. It was a picture of Taylor and his partner Trel, who Taylor loved deeply, and with whom he spent his last days. Trel is fiercely protective of Taylor, and Taylor's memory, and I was relieved that he was happy to consent to me sharing this beautiful image, of a beautiful couple. It's all there: Taylor, giving that sexy face we know and love, fiercely protective of his baby boy; Trel, looking lovingly at Taylor like that. And their hands, intertwined, unbreakable, telling us everything we need to know.

I asked Trel to tell me a little about the picture: "It was taken outside of the Hard Grove Cafe (Jersey City, NJ) on 'Same Sex Hand Holding Day' last year after we ate lunch. He took the picture using his BlackBerry, it was the forth time we took the picture, and this was the best fitting one considering I gave him the side eye all the time, and he always expressed his 'sexy' with the furrowed brows and puckered lips lol. As lighthearted as the picture is, the strength in our interlocked fingers reflect the pride and strength we had as a couple and the plans we we're determined to set into motion... Sadly it's one of the few pics him and I have with each other, when it came to pictures we only really trusted each other in catching a 'perfect' moment in time."

Thanks to Trel for sharing this.

Beyond the invisible

L

ast Sunday night, I went cruising in the park.

Actually, that's not true. My friend "Maxey" (longtime readers might remember Maxey from our 2007 bust-up) took me on a guided tour of London's Hyde Park after dark.

Maxey is a fan of the park. In fact, at the tender age of 24, Maxey likes the park, he likes the sauna, he likes Grindr, he likes Adam4Adam. It's what comes from being brainwashed by Christianity in his native Malawi, and growing up in do anything, do anyone London.

Several years ago, I took Maxey (one of my closest friends) along to the sauna for the first time. He was extremely wary at first, but eventually, it was a curious Maxey bundling me into the dark room; I was spooked by what I couldn't see, and fled, but for him, it was an awakening. I'd created a monster!

Maxey's been keeping me entertained with his tales of the park for a while now - outrageous stories of uninhibited, all male debauchery - so, as we were drinking in the area on an unusually fine Sunday evening, it seemed like the right time for a recce...

There isn't a soul in sight as we venture into a virtually pitch black Hyde Park in central London. But as we move deeper inside, away from the boundaries, shadowy figures begin to appear out of nowhere. Men: on the moonlit paths, loitering in arbours, and disappearing into trees and bushes.

We leave the path and walk up a hill to some trees. Maxey leads me into them, telling me about the well-trodden dirt paths that he knows like the back of his hand. I should hope he does - in the dark, I'm totally disorientated. We pick our way through the trees, passing other men who attempt eye contact.

Maxey is looking for the action.

"Watch where you step," he advises as we pass some muddy puddles. "Don't want mud on your shoes. That's how you know your man's been in the park: mud on the shoes. 'Why've you got mud on your shoes if you've been on road man?' Dirty slag."

I couldn't have hoped for a more engaging tour guide. To him, this is like being at the fairground, and he delights in describing its hidden secrets (and pleasures) to me. Maxey knows exactly who's who and what they're after. One fairly built guy is impatiently stomping from patch to patch, hunting. "He's a power bottom," Maxey explains. "I've seen him before. He just wants to get fucked. My boy's got lube and a condom in his back pocket ready to go." And some back story: "Last time he was pissed, man. Everytime it was on he'd get interrupted. He was getting pissed."

Another guy Maxey calls Chinos, and then there's Black Hood, and the Polish Boy. Just off one dirt path three white men are busy getting it on. Maxey goes in for a closer look, near enough to touch. I hold back, not sure if I should be looking, and if I do, might I be expected to participate? What's the etiquette? It feels rude to stare.

I ask Maxey later about that. "Shut up man," he says, mock-vexed. "If they don't like being watched they can move on." I don't ask what he does when he's being watched.

Our quarry doesn't appreciate our presence, and certainly not Maxey's close inspection. I don't think he wants a piece of the action, just the thrill of blatant, in-your-face voyuerism. The triumvirate zip up and leave, and I see one of them is grey-haired, the other two younger and at least one well built.

"He's into pensioners," Maxey says dismissively, and we move on. Next stop is a circular gravel path with well-manicured hedges. "This is where the fat people come," he says, indicating the benches. "They can't do laps of the park so they wait here." We pass an older man on a bench. "See? Too fat, man," he says, loud enough for our elders to hear. Maxey is endowed with both good looks and the confidence of youth. And, shamelessness.

I ask him how you can be sure what you're getting when it's so dark. Maxey shrugs, "Try before you buy." That seems cold - how can you give someone the green light then turn your nose up at the last minute?

Maxey leads me into a huge tree with umbrella-like branches that reach to the ground. The effect is a sort of large room with a tree trunk in the middle. Men are standing around, silently, eyeing one another up. Someone grabs my dick through my trackies. I step aside without a word. The uninvited touch isn't welcome, but I'm not offended. Outside, Maxey's exasperated by our fellow cruisers. "It just takes two to get it started then everyone'll drop their pants. People are being long tonight, man."

We're followed several times throughout the night, particularly when we venture into the dirt paths in the trees. "People think because we're together we're going to do something," Maxey explains. Ah ha, so the hunters become the hunted... We stand on the hill overlooking the orgy tree, watching guys going in. "Go and see what's going on," Maxey orders me, clearly expecting his student to strike out on his own. I hesitate, curious about the spectacle I might witness in the orgy tree, but not curious enough to put myself in the line of fire. Maxey prods me towards the tree, "Just go man, don't be a lesbian." Again, he's loud enough for people to hear, and I'm embarrassed into going. If I'm a lesbian, then he's a pushy soccer mom.

Nothing much is happening inside: guys are standing around, waiting for someone to make the first move. Black, white, Middle-Eastern, young, old, scene and closeted. They're all here. Everyone looks towards me as I step in. I can smell stale cigarette smoke, beer breath, and that unappealing stale dick smell. It's not nice. Back on the hill, Maxey calls me a frigid slut, and we do a few more laps of the route, a road everyone seems to know.

Although there's been one or two cute guys over the few hours we're in the park, I'm never tempted. Perhaps I really am a "frigid slut" as Maxey joked, or perhaps the relative clarity online hook-up sites offer (pictures, and even video, of exactly what you're getting) - and the fantasy of porn - has rendered this shadowy, uncertain world too much of a gamble. One of Maxey's rules of play is no kissing - unless someone's clearly just arrived - or you could end up with a nasty taste in the mouth. No kissing is not my idea of sex. And the quality control issue looms too large - never mind how many dicks someone's had in their mouth, I want to know they've just stepped out of the shower.

One dark-skinned guy in shorts and an anorak with the hood pulled up, who's been impatiently stalking the park as long as we've been there, has grabbed Maxey and refused to let go whilst I've been watering a tree. "The Nigerian," Maxey says by way of explanation. He doesn't seem phased by it. It's all part of the fun.

And it has been a fun night, but mainly because I'm here with my friend, who happens to be a hugely entertaining (and informative) tour guide, and because it's an eye-opening experience. I suspect I'd get bored and frustrated if I was on my own and looking for sex. Ultimately, although I like the idea of a sexual free-for-all in the park, the reality is a bit too lonely - and grubby - for me.