by Craig Taylor
I never really did parks and overgrounds as much as I did confined spaces. I had less chance of being murdered in a toilet than I would in a park, and although I’d have more chance of being arrested, someone would hear my screams. I was cautious. I did some night-time cruising in Hyde Park once and just got terrified. It’s pitch black and people are hanging around, walking about, wandering.
The whole thing involves no conversation whatsoever, that’s the weird thing about cruising, actually. I’ve had whole episodes where no conversation, not a single word is passed.
Once I met a guy in the Liverpool Street toilets, that’s a well-known cruising ground. We gave each other the nudge-nudge-wink-wink and then we moved across to a graveyard. I’ve had so much sex there. I remember one guy showed me a mobile photo of his daughter afterwards.
Marks & Spencer’s in Canary Wharf is another well-known cruising ground. Very conveniently, there’s a toilet next to Marks & Spencer’s, it says, THESE TOILETS WILL BE CHECKED IN THE NEXT … and it has a countdown, every hour. Until it’s got like two minutes remaining, you know no one’s going to walk in, so it’s really ridiculous. As the person who’s been cleaning leaves, it goes back to: THESE TOILETS WILL BE CHECKED IN THE NEXT 45 MINUTES, and you’ve got almost 45 minutes to get up to no good.
I was obsessed at one point with finding disused toilets in London. There’s a book called For Whose Convenience? It was written during the 1920s and it was a discreet gay guide to London for cruisers, under the guise of being a guide to where public toilets are in London. What do you do if you’ve had ten cups of tea on Mortimer Street and you’re stranded? For a whole summer in London I made it my mission to visit these disused toilets. Some of them were concreted up but still had the GENTLEMEN sign outside. Others were completely obliterated. There was one by Holborn, an original Victorian pissoir which is no longer in use but is still on street level. There’s another one by Foley Street, behind Oxford Circus. They’re almost certainly all of them gay pick-up joints. Whenever I pass I think about what used to go on in there.
There’s a cottage in Piccadilly Circus that’s been closed down. There was this public toilet there but it’s no longer in existence. They shut it down. That was about five years ago. It was too rough. It was dark. Oh my god, there’s a public toilet by Petticoat Lane market. A friend of mine said he went down there once and he almost had his dick ripped off, so I thought I’d give it a miss.
I used to wear a dark blue, navy pinstripe suit with a handkerchief. One evening it had been raining, so I had my umbrella with me and I’m not sure why but I ended up in Mayfair of all places. I think I’d just decided to go for a stroll. It was a bit too early to go home and it was such a nice day as it had just finished raining. I went to a small verge, triangle, to cross over the road, and he caught me up and he said, are you lost? I said no, I’m fine, thank you and smiled and nodded and carried on. Then he turned a corner and I thought actually, I’m just going to follow him. I followed him out of Mayfair and down to Hyde Park and he entered the park. He walked along and then sat down by a bench and I kept on walking, but I thought, okay, he’s sat down, maybe I should reverse. So I went back again and walked towards the bench and sat down next to him. I saw he had a copy of the Irish Times and he was writing a birthday card with a fountain pen and he was formally dressed with those shoes that have tassels and was in a grey kind of pinstriped number.
I sat there next to him and it transpired that he was actually Welsh. Anyway, he asked me if I worked round there and I said yes, and we had a quick chat about superficial things and he said he worked for a wealthy Irish family in Mayfair, he was a valet and he looked after them. He said the family were very wealthy, he travels with them to France and they had a fine collection of art, they had furniture by Robert Adams in the house, and were very well-to-do. And then I said, can I entertain you? And he said, yes, but where? And I said, maybe over there … and he said, no, no, it’s too exposed. I said, well I only do open spaces and then he said, why don’t you come back to my club and I said, okay. So we walked together to this club in Mayfair. For some reason we went to the car park. Because he knew the people who worked in the car park. And we had sex in the stairs. That was the first time round. I said goodbye, and he said, don’t go and talk to any strangers, and I left.
Two weeks passed and then I thought I’d go walking again, why not, and I heard this name: Daniel! I turned around and it was the valet. He’d been to Paris and he was feeling a bit depressed about work. He was quite tired, quite run-down. We were having a chat and we exchanged telephone numbers and I thought to myself, why don’t I just sleep with him. So I texted him and said: are you around for sex? Then he said, come to this hotel in Mayfair. Say you’re going to the Morning Suite and go to room 551. So I walked up to this huge, impressive Mayfair hotel and I was head-to-toe in my suit, so I thought I’d have no problems. I swanked in and I was asking all these people where the Morning Suite was. I went through in these black Barca loafers, brogue-type things, walking through, very gentlemanly and then saw where all the rooms were and made a dart down a side exit and went up to the fifth floor. And I knocked on the door and he opened it and he was in a bathrobe, a white towelling bathrobe. I walked in and was like, great, where’s the bed? And I looked at the bed and realized that there was this black rubber mattress with a talcum-powdered gimp mask on it.
The room was quite nasty, it was quite sordid. The bed was basically the width of the room. It was a very small room. I said, one moment please. I walked back and tried the door and thankfully it wasn’t locked. I don’t know what would have happened if that door had actually been locked. I opened the door and then ran so fast down this corridor. I ran so fast that I turned down the staff staircase instead of the public one and it was only very narrow and it could’ve only fitted one person at a time, and I started pulling myself forward on both of the handrails all the way down and I ran so fast that I ended up in the basement. I’d gone too far down the staircase. I started climbing back up and I started hearing footsteps on the stairs. Then I made it to the ground floor and left the building. All I could hear was the traffic on the street. I had this text message: ‘Are you okay? What’s going on?’ I didn’t go back to Mayfair for a long time after that.
*
I sometimes think I’m only doing in real life what people are doing on the Internet. I’m only doing on the streets what people are doing behind closed doors. I don’t want to look back on my life and be like, it was a big, jaded life. It just involved a lot of sex and no love. That’s a bit sad. It’s not really that cool past the age of 30 to be doing this. I’m 28 now.
EMMAJO READ
Nightclub door attendant
London isn’t as 24-hour a city as it likes to think it is, but in Farringdon there are three 24-hour caffs, a 24-hour diner and a pub that opens at 7 a.m. for the guys in the meat market. Sometimes I’ll be pissed off after a really horrible night on the door and I go to get a coffee and there’ll be like an Eastern European woman behind the counter who can barely speak English and these guys covered in blood from the meat market and some cabby slagging off whatever … I love that. You know, that’s Farringdon.
Up until recently, I’ve done the guest list at a club in Farringdon. Fridays it’s 10 till 6 in the morning, Saturdays is 11 till 7. People queue up and my job is to see if their names are there. If their names aren’t there I maybe say to them, whose list are you meant to be on? And I see if I know the name of the person, if I maybe find they’re a friend of a friend or something like that. Or if they drop the right names then I might let them in but make them pay. But you can only get on the guest list if you know somebody who works there or one of the artists or you’re music industry. So obviously people get quite pissed off. Sometimes there’d be two of us and one of us would do guest list and the other one would walk up and down the queue deciding who could and couldn’t come in. That’s really awful.
You can tell a blagger a mile off. It’s
all in their comportment. You’d know they’re not on the guest list. They always open with a story: ‘Right, the thing is …’ The blagger is generally, I don’t want to say aggressive, but there’s something quite determined about them. They might say, ‘I’m on the manager’s list.’ Nobody who’s really on the guest list says that to you. Different music attracts different types of people and different crowds, right? So if it’s a drum-and-bass night and somebody says ‘Y’all right? My name’s this.’ You know they’re not going to be on the guest list. Somebody who’s down there for a drum-and-bass night would have a bit more swagger. They’d definitely call you a pet name like sweetheart, darlin’, babe, love, all those. I once got called – what was it? Babygirl. That’s one of the guys who generally goes to drum-and-bass night, babygirl.
I’ve also been called fats, ugly, bitch, whore, slag. Somebody called me an Arab whore once; I had on a big snood. They thought I was wearing a religious accoutrement which was actually a piece of knitwear. I’ve been spat on. Someone threatened to rape me. I’ve had things thrown at me. You just have to ignore it. Or you judge it on your instincts. To some people you’ll be like, shut up, do you know what I mean? And they’ll just walk away with their tail between their legs. Other people you say that to and they’ll be in your face and screaming at you.
Generally, from half twelve till half two is peak time for people coming to the club. The East–West divide is really obvious. A West Londoner will have really good skin, be really healthy looking, a bit too presentable and a bit too clean. What they’re wearing is trendy, but it’s not expressed with the same kind of conviction or originality as somebody from East London would wear. Everything will just be in place and clean and sharp and new. Whereas somebody from East London will have red lipstick on and it’s halfway across their face and it’s fine, whatever. Nobody from West London would do that.
They’re quite strict on the Eastern European men getting in. Because most of the pickpockets in the club tend to be Eastern Europeans, like a lone Eastern European male wearing baggy trousers. Generally all the pickpockets will wear two pairs of trousers, like baggy trousers on the outside and tight trousers on the inside so they can stuff things in the pockets of their inside trousers. Also a lot of the gropers, the people who sexually harass girls inside the club, tend to be Eastern Europeans. This is based on having worked here for years and having seen the people who get thrown out for which offences, etc.
The music can be quite race-specific. So on a Saturday you get a lot of Europeans for the house, for the techno. The Italians and Spanish love it. It’s like all these really rowdy young Italian kids and they go mental. So it’s quite white and European, whereas on a Friday it’s a lot more mixed.
There’s also a clear distinction between the drugtakers and the drinkers. You have people who have come for a night out, hear some music, get a bit drunk, dance; they’re out of there by four, because they can’t sustain it – financially or physically. Drugtakers, however, perhaps because the club’s open late, it might be their second or third port of call. That’s where they’re going to end their night, you know, so they’re the people who might come at half two, three, the later end of the night. For someone who might have come from Essex or Kent, it’s a bit of a big night. The girls are really done up, perfect tans, heels, they look immaculate, not a hair out of place. They’re generally drinkers. They want to have champagne and cocktails. Whereas the drugtakers are a mixture of boys and girls, people who look a bit cool.
When people come up to you in the queue, you can tell if somebody’s drunk, if they’ve had a line or they’ve had a pill or amphetamine. If somebody’s had a drink they’re quite unsteady on their feet, a bit slurry, and they try to hide it. You can see them struggling to look you straight in the eye. It’s a real struggle for them not to give themselves away and yet they always do. And when you say, have you had a few drinks? No, I’m not drunk. You’re definitely drunk if you say you’re not drunk. Their attempt to conceal it makes it worse. Also you’ve got to look out if somebody’s friend has got their arm round them a bit or they’re having words with them at the bottom of the queue. Because there’s always one friend who’s more drunk than the others. Somebody who’s had a pill, they’re really wide-eyed, the jaw’s going a bit, a lot of energy, but also very sweet and nice and they’re quite apologetic, yeah, just really friendly and really nice, sort of self-aware actually. There’s something quite tense about somebody who’s had a line. They’re anxious that they’re not going to be on the guest list, they’re looking over you and saying, I am there, I am!
You get people who try and get in when they are absolutely out of their minds. They don’t have their eyes open. They can’t talk. They can’t stand. It’s quite disturbing. They can’t even talk, can’t even form sentences. That’s ketamine. At what point do you give up? That’s what we always say about these people. You’ve just pulled your pants down and you’re sat on the kerb, what are you going to tell your mates your Saturday night was like? You’re sat here waiting to get in. You think we’re going to let you in?
Obviously the amount of male attention you get is just bloody through the roof. Sometimes I’ll wear a skirt or something that would slightly draw more attention to me. My face could look like an I-don’t-know-what, but as long as there’s something a bit clingy, you’re fine. One night I had some baggy, low-cut boys’ jeans and some army boots and a leather jacket and a big scarf and I had my hair tied back. A massive group of Australian girls, dressed up to the nines and really drunk, turned up in a limo. If somebody comes in a limo she’s not getting in. I knew they were going to be trouble. I said, look, I don’t think this is going to be the right place for you. You all look really nice. It’s not that kind of place in here. Maybe go down to the West End. I was really nice to them. They got ushered out the barrier and yelled, you fucking lesbian, you’re just fucking jealous.
No matter how much you try and gloss it over, you are ultimately saying to people, you’re not good enough for here. And that’s when people kick off the most. They’ll be like, you don’t know how much fucking money I’ve got. My dad could buy this place in a second. They don’t understand how they could possibly not be getting in there. Men and women. How can they possibly be getting it so wrong? I do think that is something to do with the whole topography of London. It’s a bit gnarly and you never know where you’re going to be when you turn the next corner, do you? You can’t know the rules everywhere. You can’t always know what stands for what.
From about half two, it’s absolute mayhem and all you can do is stand back and think, what the fuck, because it’s really surreal. It’s a door person in-joke. You get the casualty hour, when everyone is a complete mess and everything just goes nuts for about twenty minutes to an hour and a half. You’ve got new people trying to get in, you’ve got people who’ve got thrown out from the club trying to get back in, you’ve got people having fights or discussions about how terrible the club is. You’ve got people being sick, people going to the toilet in the street. It just descends.
There’s always somebody who’s got a really strange story. Honestly, every week there’s somebody who’s trying to negotiate with you as to why they need to get into the club or why they’re loitering outside. Like they’ve lost their friends or their phone or their cloakroom ticket or they’ve been thrown out but it wasn’t fair. These stories never ring true. It’s like, you’ve been in a fight, you’ve been bottled and you’re trying to get back in?
There’s something about that hour when you don’t encounter a single lucid, sane person. People who are absolutely off their face and have been taken out of the club because it’s dangerous for them to be there, they will just sway. They will hold on to the barrier and they’ll sway and they’ll be in their own world, talking to themselves. It’s bizarre. It’s quite gross as well.
They’re really flummoxed, and they’ll be trying to strike up conversations with passers-by, trying to be normal. But they won�
�t be aware of the dire state that they’re in and that they need to go home. They will hang out for hours. And then you see really pervy guys. They’ll go up to groups of girls and they’ll try and have conversations with them. They’ll offer them lights. Offer to take them into the club and buy them drinks. Some of them are clearly quite deranged but they wouldn’t behave like this nine to five. And if they could see themselves they would see that it’s totally unacceptable behaviour. But all the boundaries and rules that apply in the daytime are gone. And you can’t reason with people like that. People’s worst qualities come out at night.
When she reaches across for her drink I can see the three-inch taffoo on her lower left arm. She doesn’t knows the font; it was taken from the label of one of her dresses. It’s a single word: London.
At the end of the night I love getting my coffee or a Kit Kat and being really sober and clearheaded, like the cabbies and the guys who work in the meat market. I get in a black cab on Clerkenwell Road and the guy says, how was your night, love? Well, I was working. Oh really? I thought you’d been out. And then I bitch about my night. I love having a different perspective to everybody else he’s spoken to, or she’s spoken to.
What I especially love is in summer when it’s about half three, four in the morning, and you get this kind of purple-pinky hue to the sky. It’s one of the very few places I’ve known in London where you can see stars. When I’ve been at my most pissed off, my most offended and just felt really despairing, I look up to the Barbican Tower and I see the top of Smithfield Market and that sky, and it’s like I’m just in it.
SMARTIE
