My favourite jumper

As soon as I woke up, I knew that the previous night had been overly indulgent, even by my standards. My throat was so dry that I couldn’t swallow without grating off bits of it; my eyes rejected the aggressive daylight streaming through the skylight with such a vengeance that you’d have thought a transplant had gone wrong; the thud in my head was like that of an onboard motor.

Thankfully, I was alone in my bed.
Read more..

I didn’t have to try and remember some arbitrary person’s name nor have to feign interest in his bits or his mind. What’s the time? What day is it? I knocked back the glass of stale coke next to the bed and lit a fag. A message beeped on my mobile just as I was reaching for it. With lots of squinting, I made out the time. Almost 10; Sunday morning. Bloody hell, I still having Christmas shopping to do! I grabbed the ashtray and clutching it to my chest, crumpled back into the pillows. I smoked the cigarette with my eyes closed, trying my best not to miss the ashtray. With each drag, my throat rebelled against the assault of the hot smoke. Halfway through, I stubbed it out. A blast of heat surged through the ashtray forcing my eyes open as I winced in pain. Another message beeped as I hurriedly put the ashtray on the bedside table.

There were lots of missed calls, two voicemails and 5 text messages. All of them were from a number I didn’t recognise. I read the messages. One of them was signed ‘Phil’. The first had been sent just after 4am and said, 'where u go? am looking for u.x.' Another said, 'call me pls, let me know u ok. xx'. 'alan, where r u. am worried. pls tell me.x.x,' said another. One of them said that he had my jumper and scarf.

He was worried? I had no idea who the person was. I was worried!

Phil? Had I met a Phil the night before? Yes, I had. I’d bumped into Phil and his partner, Paul, at the Lord Roberts. A quiet couple, but interesting and fun to talk to after a few pints. I’d even exchanged numbers with one of them, suggesting that they look me up in Amsterdam were they to visit. That was Phil’s number, I thought. So why did his number show up as unrecognised? I also remembered going with them to the Central (called Niche Bar these days) after the Lord Roberts. But I didn’t remember anything that could have prompted the messages I’d got.

I listened to the voicemails.

They were all in the same vein. Phil wanted to know where I was, where I’d gone. More worryingly, one of them said that he really liked me and wanted to see me again.

I lit another fag.

My poor throbbing head started to analyse as much of the previous night that it could remember. We’d flirted before but in that harmless sort of way that meant absolutely nothing. There’d never been any sign of real interest from him. And I was sure that last night had been the same. What had happened to bring all this on? Phil was quite cute in his way but he and Paul had always seemed very committed to each other. I was intrigued.

'At home. Sore head here. How are you? X' said my message to him. No reply. Several hours later, I got a message from the number I’d taken from him the night before.

‘Hey Alan, was good to see you again. Hope your head isn’t too sore today. We’ve both got horrid hangovers. Enjoy your last few days here and good luck for Amsterdam. Keep in touch. x’ That confused me even more. Had I mixed Phil up with Paul? Two four-letter names, both starting with ‘P’. Easily done. Especially with my memory for names. Which one was which? Did Paul know that Phil had sent me all those messages?

I replied as neutrally as possible. 'Very fuzzy head here. Why don’t I ever learn? Do you have my jumper and scarf? x.'

'Sorry, no. You were wearing them when we last saw you. x'

Ok, so he didn’t know about Phil’s messages. Then I got another message from Phil.

'Hi, so plzd you ok, was so worried. When u free? Cum visit me. Would be good 2 continue where we left off.x.x.x'

Carry on where we left off? What had we been doing and where? Visit him with Paul there even though Paul knew nothing of what had been going on? Although I didn’t know them well, they didn’t seem the sort to invite men home, whether it be for a threesome or just for one of them. I wasn’t sure what to reply. 'What did we do last night? Sorry, but I don’t remember anything. Where do you live? Are you on your own now?'

'in the meadows. just me and my 2 kittens, diesel and tigga. cum anytime, am free now. lets continue where we left off, except u cant remember where that was?x.x.x'

Doubts set in. Who was this person? Phil and Paul live together in a village a few miles out of Nottingham. Did Phil also have a place of his own in the Meadows? Unlikely. 'Head too sore to come out now. I really can’t remember anything from last night. Where did we meet up?'
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'met when u collapsed in front of me in central, just saw u’re beautiful blue eyes and fell in love. bet u cant remba wot color mine r?x.x'

Definitely not that Phil then. What a relief! But who was it? I had no recollection of collapsing at Central. And certainly no recollection of speaking to anyone after it had happened. Someone whom I’d given my phone number to; someone with whom we’d ‘done things’; someone who now had my jumper and scarf.

We’d obviously done enough to make this bloke really keen. Despite my having no recollection of him nor of what we’d done. He began bombarding me with text messages, not all of which I was replying to. His eagerness was disconcerting. Very disconcerting, actually. Still, I was intrigued to meet him. But had it not been for the fact that he had my favourite new jumper and a scarf of mine, I’d probably not have met him. What if I didn’t like him? More importantly, what if I didn’t fancy them? If that were the case, meeting him would present me with the awkwardness of letting him know that I didn’t want to ‘carry on where we’d left off.’ And anyway, I only had a week left in Nottingham so adding yet another complication to my life just didn’t make any sense at all. Not that complicating my life has ever been much of deterrent when it comes to the things I do. But I’d already lost one jumper the week before by over-indulging and pretending I was 18 at the club. I didn’t want to lose another.

'When are you next out? X'

The words were carefully chosen. I didn’t want him to think that I was arranging some sort of date.

'hi, when do u want me 2 be out? why don’t u just ask and i’ll see I’m free.x.x’

That extreme keenness again! I ignored the message. Another arrived a few hours later.

'Hi, what u up 2 2nite, whoring it again? didn’t reply 2 my last text. when u goin 2 ask me out? Look forward to u’re reply.x.x'

I wasn’t doing anything that night but I suggested we meet the next night, Christmas eve.

'Sounds good 2 me. wot time u thinking of? do u want 2 meet me or come round?'

I definitely wasn’t going to his place! I suggested the Lord Roberts.

'ten sounds gud. c u 2morrow at Roberts.x.x'

I got several messages throughout the next day. In the afternoon, I got this one:

'hi handsome, ave i woke u up? sorry u need u’re beauty sleep don’t u. looking 4ward 2 c u later. ope u can rememba wot I look like as u don’t rememba much bout it. x.x.x'

Intrigued or not, to say that I was dreading the meeting is quite an understatement. Although I had no recollection of him, I was sure that I’d remember him when I saw him again.
Yes, there's more..

The Roberts wasn’t particularly busy when I walked in, scanning the room to see if I could spot him. I expected to see a strange yet familiar face that would be him. I was also looking for my jumper and scarf. I felt sure that they would help me recognise him. There were a number of regulars there but no one seemed like the overly-keen Phil. Once I’d paid for my pint, I scanned the room again, my gaze receptive to having it caught by someone expecting me. A man in the corner, a complete stranger, smiled at me and half raised his hand.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ he said as I approached him.

Now Nottingham’s gay scene is really quite small, small enough for most faces to be familiar even if you don’t know everyone. This was a face that I’d not seen before. It beamed at me. A total stranger was beaming at me! In a gay bar, potentially the prelude to a very pleasant experience. It made me uneasy. Tall and slim, no god’s gift, Phil wasn’t too bad to look at. He was casually dressed and wore glasses. Bland describes him well; the sort of person who’d easily fade into the background. Very normal-looking, in fact. I like slim men but there was nothing about him that would have attracted my attention had it not been for the constant beaming. There was no sign of my jumper and scarf. He hadn't brought them with him.

‘You know, I honestly can’t remember you at all,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry. I must have been so pissed last night.’ I stretched my hand out, ready to shake his.

Still beaming, he stretched out his left hand. Rather than shake mine, he took it into his, squeezing it affectionately. In an over-familiar way. ‘Yes, you were.’

Creepy! I’d never met this man before! Having met people off the internet before, men with whom I’d exchanged lots of intimate information before actually meeting them, you’d think I’d have been ok with the situation. This was entirely different. As we spoke, it became very obvious that not only had we ‘done things’ together but we’d also chatted quite a bit. He knew all sorts of things about me. My age, where I come from, that I was leaving soon, my surname, the fact that I have children and much much more. But I knew next to nothing about him.

He kept smiling; touching me. It made me uneasy. The whole situation was very unpleasant.

‘So what happened after you rescued me from the floor?’ I asked.

‘You insisted we go to the club,’ he said.

‘We went to the club?’

‘Yes, you even paid for me.’

I remembered the Roberts and the Central. There was no memory of the club.

And what did we do? He told me. I wish he hadn’t.
You can't stop reading now..

I kept grabbing him, kissing him passionately while groping him on the dance floor. I’d taken him to the toilets several times.

‘Surely if I was that drunk, I couldn’t get a hardon?’ I asked.

‘Oh you had no problem at all. You kept getting hard and forcing me to suck your cock. You came several times. I’ve still got the evidence. On your jumper.’

Woo-hoo! What a stud! How fucking sordid!

‘And the one time you forced me down, you pissed in my face,’ he said with a big grin.

‘What?!! I’m so sorry,’ I said. I was shocked. And genuinely apologetic.

‘Oh never mind, I enjoyed it.’

Eew! Could this get any worse?

By that stage, we’d both had two pints each and I’d happily have gone home, cutting the night short. But I had something to give a friend of mine who was at the Forresters. It would be the last time I saw him before moving to Amsterdam. Even though Phil’s account of our exploits had horrified me, going to Forresters without him would have been unnecessarily rude. And anyway, I still needed to get my jumper from him. Soiled or not.

We moved on to the Forresters.
There's more..

Unlike the Roberts, Forresters was heaving. A blast of heat hit us as we entered the door. A pall of smoke hung over the place. Every second person seemed to be wearing a Christmas hat. Everyone was shouting at each other. Distorted show tunes almost drowned out the shouting. Walking in from the cold, it felt like walking into a benign approximation of Hell.

Things got worse once we were there. With more alcohol in him and in a darker, crowded environment, he got a lot bolder. He kept lunging at me. His mouth did, to be exact. And when he wasn’t lunging, he was clapping, shouting, singing and wolf-whistling at the appalling drag act that had been dragged out for our Christmas Eve entertainment. My expression probably said it all as he leant into my ear and said, ‘All my friends say I’m so common. Hey, but do I care? No! I like enjoying myself.’ With his arm around me, he turned away and wolf-whistled at the drag queen again.

One of the things that I like about the gay scene, especially a small one, is the way it brings people from all walks of life together. There's a much wider cross-section of people than you’d find in straight bars and clubs where the clientele are often quite homogenous in where they come from and what they do. I like to think that I’m not too much of a snob as I really couldn’t care less about a person’s background if the person is interesting, amusing and free of most bigoted opinions. Being good-looking helps too, of course. So describing someone as coming from the wrong side of the tracks isn’t something you’ll hear me say too often. But this man was seriously from the wrong side of the tracks! Not that I could talk the way I’d been carrying on with him at the club a few nights before.

Each time he lunged at me, I felt a thickening of the icy frigidity that had developed between us. He felt it too, of course.

‘You don’t like me, do you?’ he asked. Several times. Each time I said the same thing.

‘Of course I like you,’ I lied, ‘it’s just strange being with you like this when I can’t remember anything from the other night.’

I had to get away from him.
Almost finished..

He knew that I was going to Michelle’s parents for Christmas lunch the next day, so making an excuse about leaving relatively early (it was already 1 am by then) and going home on my own was a perfectly acceptable excuse. His faced dropped when I told him I was leaving. It was like watching a balloon slowly expelling air. I gave him an awkward hug and a peck on the lips and left, murmuring something about seeing him soon.

I still wanted to get that bloody jumper back!

About half an hour later, I got a message from him. I was already back in my flat.

'am sat on a wall on glasshouse st writing this, avent bin so upset in ages. i don’t know what u think of me, but I cant stop thinking bout u. i know it sounds corny, but I think I’m in love. i hate to think u r leavin 31st. god help me!'

Half an hour later, another arrived.

'Hi Alan, am now home. i don’t think i should see u again. ave cried all the way home. u are the first guy i’ve ever felt so passionate about, i cant begin to think what it wil be like when u go.x.x.x.x.x'

I went to sleep.

In the morning, before meeting Michelle, I got another.

'hi Alan, merry Christmas. realy n joyd las nite, was ok. til u went one then i got upset. wud luv 2 spend a nite being passionate wiv u. ope that’s possible b 4 u go away 4 gud.’

There were several more during the day. One moment he’d be saying that he couldn’t see me again, the next he’d be asking for a night of passion with me.

At one point I said that having a night of passion was probably not a good idea but how was I to get my jumper and scarf from him.

'u only get it back if u spend the nite. but if u don’t fancy that just give me ure address and I’ll bring it around. X.x.x'

I went out and bought another one the next day.

POSTSCRIPT:

His text messages aren't exaggerations. I still have them on my mobile so they are word-for-word transcriptions. And if you think they're funny, you should hear how hilarious they are when Mike reads them out in his best Nottingham accent.

Image map hiding text

Unusually for me, I decided to tag myself with something that minge has been touting:

Please take a photograph of whatever you see before you, this Sunday (4th February 2007) at 5pm/17:00 (local time) and email it to me. Feel free to add any information you like, what the picture shows, what you were doing at the time, where you are, whether it's typical or atypical of where you are or what you do at 17:00 on a Sunday afternoon. Anything. It's up to you.

I hibernated this weekend, spending most of the time indoors, only venturing out twice to get a few groceries and an English Sunday newspaper so my contribution reflects that. And being an indecisive sort, rather than send him just one picture, I've sent a collage. That's cheating, I know, but I cheated more than just that - none of the pictures were taken at 5pm today and some were even taken yesterday. Ok, so I'm a cheat, but here you have a window on my world.

If you click on an individual picture, you'll get a bigger version of it. And if you want a bigger version of the collage, click here.

image map

Unusually for me, I decided to tag myself with something that minge has been touting:

Please take a photograph of whatever you see before you, this Sunday (4th February 2007) at 5pm/17:00 (local time) and email it to me. Feel free to add any information you like, what the picture shows, what you were doing at the time, where you are, whether it's typical or atypical of where you are or what you do at 17:00 on a Sunday afternoon. Anything. It's up to you. helpful.

I hibernated this weekend, spending most of the time indoors, only venturing out twice to get a few groceries and an English Sunday newspaper so my contribution reflects that. And being an indecisive sort, rather than send him just one picture, I've sent a collage. That's cheating, I know, but I cheated more than just that - none of the pictures were taken at 5pm today and some were even taken yesterday. Ok, so I'm a cheat, but here you have a window on my world.

If you click on an individual picture, you'll get a bigger version of it. And if you want a bigger version of the collage, click here.

Font test

Lets type in Arial for a this bit is bold change

And now in Times New Roman with a bit in bold

Razaq

Like most of the rest of you, I get my fair share of offers to buy viagra at hugely discounted prices and offers to increase my penis to huge proportions. Along with offers of loans, university degrees and requests to check my bank details (phishing) for banks that I’ve never banked with. Unlike many of you, including Rob, I’ve been spared the various scams (419 fraud) that promise untold riches if you’re stupid enough to provide them with your bank details.

Until a few days ago, that is.

From: aj.meutgeert@home.nl
Subject: Email from Samiu
Date: Wed, 17 Jan 2007 19:42:54 +0100

Dear Sir/Madam,

This letter may come to you as a surprise due to the fact that we have not yet met. I have to say that I have no intentions of causing you any pains so i decided to contact you through this medium.

As you read this, I don't want you to feel sorry for me, because, I believe everyone will die someday. My name is Razaq Samiu, a merchant in Dubai, in the U.A.E. I have been diagnosed with prostate and esophageal Cancer that was discovered very late due to my laxity in caring for my health. It has defiled all form of medicine and right now, I have only about a few months to live according to medical experts.

I have not particularly lived my life so well, as I never really cared for anyone not even myself but my business. Though I am very rich, I was never generous, I was always hostile to people and only focus on my business as that was the only thing I cared for. But now I regret all this as I now know that there is more to life than just wanting to have or make all the money in the world. I believe when God gives me a second chance to come to this world I would live my life a different way from how I have lived it. Now that I know my time is near, I have willed and given most of my properties and assets to my immediate and extended family members and as well as a few close friends and Schools in the UAE. I have decided to give alms to charity organizations, as I want this to be one of the last good deeds I do on earth. So far, I have distributed money to some charity organizations in the U.A.E, England and Ireland. Now that my health has deteriorated so badly, I cannot do this myself any more. I once asked members of my family to close one of my accounts and donate the money, which I have there to charity organization in Bulgaria, they refused and kept the money to themselves. Hence, I do not trust them anymore, as they seem not to be contended with what I have left for them. The last of my money which is the huge cash that I deposit in a bank in England Uk.

I want you to help me collect this deposit and dispatched it to charity organizations and let them know that it is I Razaq Samiu that is making this generous donation.

I am writing this from my laptop computer in my hospital bed in England where I wait for my time to come. If you are interested to help me i will give you more information about this like the amount that i deposited in the bank and Contact of the bank so you can contact them. I will also send you a picture of myself when i am on my laptop in the hospital.

Note that you will take 20% out of the funds and give 80% to the charity organizations. I pray that God uses you to support and assist me with good heart God be with you.

If you can help respond back to me on my private email:
razaqsamiu2@yahoo.es

Razaq Samiu

Between receiving Razaq's heart-rending email and now, I've received a couple of 'romance-scams' on a gay chat site. Obviously, my time of innocence when it comes to being the target of scammers has come to an end.

Do you think I should reply and see what happens next? It would be interesting to see his picture, don’t you think? But, while it would be interesting, it’s definitely not original. Some people have elevated the activity of ‘scam baiting’into a fine art.

Whole websites are devoted to it.

I remembered reading about a particular scam-baiting website that specialises in hoodwinking the ‘scamsters’ into doing the most ridiculous things: posing for pics with hilarious signs, making elaborate carvings, actually get tattoed, etc. You can see some of the results below.

Another one is called 'Bait a Mugu'. According to them, a mugu is a 'term used by the scammers among themselves to describe their intended victims. Roughly translated this term mean "big fool"'. Now hang on, that word sounds suspiciously like the Afrikaans word, 'moegoe'. According to Wiktionary, 'moegoe' is a South African pejorative word meaning an idiot or a mampara. It suggests that the word may be derived from 'moeg ou', the Afrikaans term for 'tired person'. If that's the case, the word has travelled all the way up to West Africa. Alternatively, like many other Afrikaans words, it's a truly African word that has been adopted by Afrikaans.

Here's a selection of 'trophies' from '419 eater'.

You know, while finding those pics really amusing, I started to feel sorry for these people. Poor, ignorant people, trying to make money by any which way. There even seemed something racist about the whole thing.

Hang on, Nomad, don't be such a wet, bleeding-heart liberal! These guys are responsible for pilfering nearly $200 million from Americans annually and costing the UK economy £150m a year. Ok, so people are stupid to fall for this sort of thing but these scammers aren't people one should be feeling sorry for.

Phew, bleeding-heart moment over. Here are some more pics:

Ok, while I won’t go into a whole scam-baiting exercise, I’d still like to see Razaq’s pic. Watch this space for further developments.

machel

Unlike the assassination of Verwoerd, the death of Samora Machel wasn’t a JFK moment for me. I remember the shock of it but not where I was and what I was doing at the time. The first post-colonial leader of the country of my birth had died and it was suspected that South Africa, my adopted country, was responsible for the aeroplane crash that killed him along with 24 other passengers.

It was twenty years ago today.

1986 was the year when my wife and I decided to leave South Africa. We’d been feeling very uncomfortable about the political situation for many years but P W Botha’s infamous 'Crossing the Rubicon speech' on 15 August 1985 was the tipping point. The country was beset with violence and was in a constant state of emergency. In Pik Botha’s words at the TRC hearings:

‘1985 stands out as a dark year in our history. The South West Africa (Namibia) issue was far from being resolved. South African troops were fighting in Angola. The high hopes raised by the 1984 Nkomati Accord between Mozambique and South Africa had dissipated.‘

We entered 1986 knowing that we’d be leaving the country (we left in February 1987), unlike previous years where we’d just talked about it. Apart from the effect that had on our minds, there is so much else that I remember from that year including two ‘JFK moments’ of mine, the disintegration of Challenger and the disaster at Chernobyl. It was also the year that Imelda Marcos became synonymous with an obsession with shoes. And it was the year of two political deaths rumoured to have been at the hands of the South Africans, Olof Palme and Samora Machel.

At that stage, Machel had been in power in Mozambique since independence from Portugal in June 1975. In his first few years of power, his revolutionary, Marxist zeal contributed towards massive strides in education and primary health care. These improvements were, however, accompanied by the abolition of all private property, suppression of free speech and huge relocations of the population, often to ‘re-education camps’ (quite a number of my friends from Maxixe were sent to re-education camps far in the north of the country because they smoked dope). Not that any of this affected his populist appeal which seemed to increase in proportion to the ever-increasing loathing from the white-minority regimes next door. Once the country descended into civil war with Renamo, an enemy first backed by Rhodesia, then by South Africa, the progress of earlier years was rapidly reversed.

Even in 1976, my last year at school, and still an enthusiastic communist, I felt very uncomfortable with some of the things that were being done in Mozambique in the name of ‘freedom and progress’. They were the things that South African racists loved to have as ammunition in arguments against democracy in South Africa. A joke with serious intent about the motives of the Soviets and its allies was doing the rounds at the time: Samora’s name stood for (SA)frica, (MO)zambique, (R)hodesia, (A)ngola.

By the time of his death, the civil war in Mozambique had rendered most of the country ungovernable so the changes that came afterwards may have happened when they did had he remained alive although his successor, Joaquim Chissano, was a much more urbane, sophisticated man with much less of the stubborn, battle-hardened, freedom-fighter that characterised Machel. But, one thing that would probably not have happened if he were still alive today, is the romance between his widow, Graça Machel, and Nelson Mandela. Graça Machel is the only woman to have been the ‘first lady’ of two different countries.

A solemn ceremony will be held today on an isolated hillside outside Mbuzini, a South African hamlet, near South Africa's borders with Mozambique and Swaziland, the site of the plane crash that killed Samora Machel. South African President Thabo Mbeki and Mozambiquan President Armando Guebuza will be there. Graça Machel and Machel's children are expected to attend.

Whatever your opinions of Samora Machel, opinions that are bound to be clouded by your political beliefs, Mozambiquans still refer to him as 'o Pai da Nação', the father of the nation.

Update: BBC report on fresh probe into the cause of Machel's death.