Tales of the Spotted Dog

Thursday saw me return to work after sick leave, with a sinking Lusitania feeling and an inbox detonating with torpedoes of gloom.  This led me to immediately peruse the university job vacancy pages but sadly no gold to pan there. It can always be worse, and on days like these I hark back to my charity mugger days, avoided by most, spat at by some; a street leper.

On my return home I released the girls for a stroll around a garden savaged by rain and retired to my den to catch up with online messages. One from sweetness, sexiness, sexy mess & honesty revealed a raft of concerns which I shared, so an agreement was made to simply enjoy what we had and go with the flow. Watch this space.

In the evening I drove into town to meet Nick for a catch up prior to seeing ‘Tales of the Spotted Dog,’ and it was lovely to ponder on summer festivals, blogs, semi naked men running around jewellery shops, the merits of road bikes and radio before being summons to the show. A climb upstairs revealed a re-creation of a pub with tables and chairs and a bar glinting with gin and tonics.

 

 

We took one each, sat ourselves down and before long we were transported back to the infamous Spotted Dog pub on Middle Street, one of the favoured Brighton gay hang outs of the late 1950s. The Wolfenden report had only recently recommended that ‘homosexual behaviour’ between consenting adults ‘in private’ should no longer be a criminal offence but nothing would change until the passage of the Sexual Offences Act 1967. This at long last replaced the law on sodomy contained in the Offences against the Person Act 1861 which had sent Oscar Wilde to prison for two years of hard labour. It broke him and he died three years later in Paris.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
  By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look
With a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
  And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
  Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
  The dead so soon grow cold.

 

 

 

Some love too little, some too long,
  Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
  And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
  Yet each man does not die.

Extract from Ballad of Reading Gaol – Oscar Wilde

Here's a rather creepy animation, best close your eyes & listen :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2tUZltCmfyc

 

The play was exquisite; beautifully staged, well acted and moving; flitting seamlessly between the innuendo of the Spotted Dog and the parlour of Patrick and muse, policeman Tom. I feel so blessed to live in these at least partially enlightened times. We really do take so much for granted and live freely despite Thatcher’s efforts to destroy us. The play was inspired and based upon the book ‘My Policeman’ by Bethan Roberts, which explores the lives of Marion and Patrick, both writing about the man at the centre of their lives, policeman Tom. The book was duly ordered as soon as I arrived home and I am greedy to read it.

http://bethanrobertswriter.co.uk/books/my-policeman-video/

I had my own brush with sharing when I lived in Cambridge. In 1984 I met and fell in love and lust with Rory, an effete writer who I met through an advertisement in Time Out magazine. After written correspondence we arranged to convene on a cold autumn night outside the Graduate Centre by Scudamores Boatyard. I was immediately taken by his lean muscular frame and resemblance to none other than Stephen Patrick Morrissey which whom I’d recently become obsessed thanks to performances like this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1PV4eiDi12w

 

 

Why pamper life's complexity
When the leather runs smooth
On the passenger seat?

I would go out tonight
But I haven't got a stitch to wear
This man said ‘it's gruesome
That someone so handsome should care’

 

 

At the time I was living in halls at Newnham College and Rory was living in a house share so we went back to my room to drink tea and chat with Scritti Politti’s Cupid & Psyche 85 pulsating in the background http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMdf1onDkxA. There was no sex on this first date and it was all nostalgically innocent. We would meet as often as we could in a covert, clandestine style befitting the times and my impenetrable closet. Rory was my first love and to all intents and purposes I lost my virginity to him.

We had been dating for about six months when Rory was made homeless. Desperate, he took up the offer of a spare room and modest rent in a friend’s house. The trouble was the friend was Carl his ex boyfriend, a tall man with a pinched face and handlebar moustache who we would stumble across with alarming regularity as we wandered the city together. To this day I am sure Carl was following us some of the time. Insanely jealous I insisted on moving in too and initially everything worked well with shared suppers and laughter. Carl was dating a guy called David at the time who often joined us but one fateful night his real agenda was made clear to me. I remember that I was preparing a red coleslaw for dinner as Carl appeared at my side with a large glass of wine.

I’m so glad that you both moved in

Me too
It’s been fun
Yes it has
We all get on surprising well don’t we?
I suppose we do, considering
And we both love Rory
Yes, I guess we do
I do miss him
What do you mean?
I miss us being together
But you have David now
It's not the same
What do you mean?
I will never love David like I do Rory
Does David know this?
He really doesn’t need to
I think he does actually
No he doesn’t, but anyway, I have an idea
What idea?
That we should share Rory
Share?
Yes, share him between us
What do you mean share?
Lovers and boyfriends.

The coleslaw never got finished and we moved out a few weeks later...