Suffering some strange looks - I think the place existed mainly on regulars so they were a bit wary of us - we were allowed in and spent a couple of very happy hours there. I never doubted how well Steven would dance, he was sex on legs, and his Concrete and Clay was a sight to behold. Everybody stopped to watch. Pre-disco, dancing then was very much a matter of doing your own thing, mainly based around the twist movements but often with a bit of rock and roll thrown in with a few other styles. Amazingly the sixties saw over 500 dances introduced so you could get away with just about anything. I think Steven covered all those to date that night. Refreshingly cool when we left, we dismissed any idea of taking a taxi and danced most of the way back to Sandbanks, ignoring the occasional sounds of horns and jeers from passing cars. It was brave for those days, two guys dancing down the street, but we were far too inebriated to care. With the music still buzzing in our heads, we scrambled into our camper and had a lot of great sex that night. But next morning. . . The mother and father of all hangovers clung to us.
being human series 3 Hours it took, drinking coffee after coffee whilst sitting on the vehicle's back doorstep, nursing our splitting heads, before any resemblance to being human appeared in either of us. Going for a walk along the all but deserted beach to clear our heads, we noticed a couple of young guys taking photos - of us! They looked vaguely familiar, and then I recalled they too were at the club. Waving at us, they walked over. Tim and Jerry, they introduced themselves. Tom and Jerry, my mind laughed. They too had a good time last night, but probably not as good as us, they joked. It seems on returning we hadn't noticed their car and tent-trailer parked next to us. Having taken a taxi back, and being one of those shouting out of the car window to us as they passed by, they were already trying to get some sleep by the time we returned. After suffering fifteen minutes of our noisily explicit lovemaking keeping them awake, where they reckoned the vehicle rocked around madly, they gave up and drove over to the other side of the car park. Oh, My God! They were great guys, a close couple we learned, but not an item. Sisters, they said. We spent the rest of the day with them, and later on our travels our paths crossed again, which explains the photo they took being here (on the astabgay. com website) of Steven doing a handstand in a litter bin on Sandbanks beach that morning. Crazy No, just a great guy in love. We stopped off and explored numerous places, too numerous to mention them all, during the next ten days or so as we made our way towards Land's End, Staying overnight in many good campsites - and a few bad ones - we were just out for laughs
cast of being human. The area round Lyme Regis was fun. We discovered gold, only to later learn it was dinosaur shit. Nearby we got lost on a walk, couldn't find our way back and were chased by a wild boar. Much further along the coast, in a beautiful little cove, I shall never forget the oral we had on a rock as the waves washed all around us. Sensual, it was. But by the time we had finished it required some cold, wet feet to reach the beach. I don't remember the name of this place, but the locals were a little weird, they stopped talking when we entered the pub for a beer - so we camped it up for them. Barred! Barred, we were - they didn't have people like us there! Many of the roads in Cornwall were obviously only made for the local pixies at that time, as to meet anything larger than a car meant one of you backing up to the nearest passing point or gateway to a field. To get over this, if that place was a long way behind us, and the other driver didn't start backing up, Steven would jump out and explain our gearbox was playing up, we had no reverse. It worked for all but one guy who, not believing the story, decided to sit it out. We'd made ourselves a sausage sandwich by the time the, probably once a day, local bus came up behind us and he had no option then but to reverse. He shouted a lot of abuse at us through his open window as we passed him, so it was annoying that night to find him serving behind the bar of the pub we had chosen. Fortunately there was another pub. I think Land's End would have been a bit of a disappointment for us, an anti-climax, had we not met up again with Tim and Jerry. That night they joined us in the camper, parked off the road on a grassy slope to some wilderness, and we downed a lot of drink, told each other a lot of stories, and had a lot laughs right into the early hours, when we just fell asleep where we were. They gave us several photos they had taken of us in Sandbanks, before they left after breakfast the next morning. We never saw them again. Making our way back along the north coast of Cornwall and Devon, although it was all new to us, I don't think either of us had as much fun as on the outward journey. Not spoken about, but always in the back of our minds, was the knowing we were heading home and to the inevitable: the day that Steven would have to leave. We did Cheddar and Wookey Hole, loved them both and vowed to return one day, and then headed for Winchester, arriving back there just three days before I would have to drive the greatest guy in the world to Southampton and wave him goodbye. More next time when I tell you how it went on seeing Ted again. Johnny.