Tonight is definitely my last Beautiful & Damned for the time being. The club night was conceived by Mr O’Boyle of The Boogaloo, and ultimately belongs to him, so I leave it in his hands. I’m so glad to be able to take a break from regular DJ-ing. I’ve been doing it for about a year now, and want to put it aside for a breather. Occasional gigs as a guest DJ are fine, but I really need to get the Fosca album done, along with other pursuits.
Boogaloo last night – some sort of Scandinavian bands playing. Well-dressed, 60s style. Miss Red confirms our joint DJ-ing engagement at a Cumbria wedding this Saturday. Mr O’Boyle confirms my amicably being ‘put out to grass’ from B&D, as he puts it, so it’s good to get that sorted out. Mr MacG is kind to me once again. I tell him I have to go home to get something to eat, and he insists on taking me down the road to the Spanish-run fish restaurant. We are the only ones there.
In the news: Cambridge elects a Mayor and Mayoress who happen to both be male-to-female transsexuals. And who are a couple themselves. I think this is wonderful, though it’s a shame they’re Liberal Democrats. You can’t have everything.
Abiding memories of Keith Girdler that I feel I can share. A parting embrace by the steps to Leicester Square Tube, and some passer-by decides to comments sarcastically on us. “Oooh, can I have a hug too?” Well, that passer-by can get knotted.
Annoying that this is effectively yet another memory of a heckler, taking up space in my mind that should be reserved for nicer things.
Yesterday – to Hampstead Heath Men’s Pond for the first time. It’s an outrageously hot and sunny day, so it makes sense to go for a swim in the open air, under a particularly glorious blue sky. I walk down the leafy path and pull open a big, obscuring door marked ‘MEN ONLY’, feeling like I’m marking a rite of passage.
The Men’s Pond is an old-fashioned institution and is a lot larger than I’d imagined, the banks mossy and muddy, the water punctuated with ducks and moorhens. A handful of gentlemen there, of all ages, and the water is a lot less cold than anticipated. In some parts of the pond where the sun has been beating down for most of the day, it’s actually warm. Out of practice for years, I panic slightly as I get in and realise there’s no shallow end, but thankfully my ability hasn’t entirely deserted me, so no need for the lifeguard. Imagine that: I think the fear of embarrassment propels my desperation to keep afloat more than anything else. Never underestimate the healing power of potential embarrassment.
So although it’s a relief to discover I can still swim, I’m very slow with it and have to stop by the various duck-covered floats along the way. When I get out, my limbs suddenly feel like lead weights. A sign that I really am out of shape. But like the long walks, it’ll get easier if I keep it up. I promise myself to return.
Most of the men in the enclosure are not in the actual pond, but sitting around and sunbathing: some in the designated nudist area, some in the changing section where costumes are required. Men together, gay and not gay, young and old. Seeing teenage boys swimming together, away from women and girls, one can’t help thinking of those paintings by Henry Scott Tuke.
Last time I went swimming, it was a few years ago at the indoor pool at Archway. There were lots of women friends chatting in the Shallow End about life, and often about husbands. The Men’s Pond denizens do chat, but what I overhear is rarely about women. Tips on fitness, sport, work, cars, culture. But mostly they lie about quietly, naked or not naked. It’s an unique and uncommon London atmosphere, and I rather like it. Even if I feel like the palest, worst swimmer there.
