Do you believe in destiny ? I do and I believe that it was ordained by Destiny that Carl and I should meet. That long, hot summer of 1976 Destiny was going to play a little game with we two.

I may have earned my basic living working in a shop but my second income came from an activity I loved and enjoyed far more. As soon as I passed my driving test I spent out on a second hand Vauxhall Viva van and set myself up as a mobile disco. With a twin deck, amp, speakers and half a dozen light boxes I provided music for parties, youth clubs, schools, weddings and bamitzvahs. I had a regular Wednesday evening residency at a local pub - The White Hart and could always rely on at least one other gig in the week. My fee from the residency paid for the running of the van and the purchase of new releases so any money from other gigs was a profit in my pocket. The van had originally been owned by British Rail and was painted in their vivid yellow livery, I called myself The Yellow Peril Disco. It was fun.

Even if I say so myself I was a bloody good DJ and had a reputation in the town. I knew how to whip up the dancers, get them out on the floor then more importantly to keep them there. To use a modern day cliché it was not rocket science, so many amateur DJ's just could not keep an atmosphere going - no sooner had they got things going they killed it stone deal by playing the wrong record upon which everyone would migrate to the side of the hall leaving the dance floor empty. Yet many of these less successful disc jockeys fancied themselves for a career in radio and were always making up tapes which they would send to Radio One or Radio Luxembourg. Radio Luxembourg, I wonder if you remember that particular pop music station. CLICK HERE and listen. Not for me, my ambition was to play Cesar's Palace. Not Ceasar's palace Las Vegas but Cesar's Palace Luton - yes there was such a place ! This was a large nightclub, its fire certificate permitted 1,500, in the industrial town of Luton some thirty-five miles North of London. The manager was guy by the name of George Savva, I had approached him many times in an attempt to play there but Cesar's only had live music and always booked big names - even Frank Sinatra had played there. George was Greek, each time I asked him to book my disco I learned a different way to say piss off in Greek.

While Cesar's Palace remained off limits the regular gigs continued. Steve managed to get me a booking for a disco at the leisure centre's monthly party. When he first told me about it I thought it was just another example of my friend's bullshitting but no he had secured the gig for me and through that gig I met Carl. Yes Carl, Carl the subject in the title of this autobiography. Six thousand words into the tale and I am only just beginning to tell you about him, I bet you were wondering if he really existed ! All good things come to he who waits ! That's Carl on the left.

The monthly leisure centre disco was a big affair, usually there would be between four and five hundred people there. The dance was staged in the main sports hall with a bar and snacks on sale. It was an all ticket affair with a strict no under eighteens policy. There was no upper age limit although few in their thirties came along, no old age pensioners allowed. Steve informed me that Radio One talent scouts always came along to check the DJ but that really was some of his bullshit.

At any disco you tended to get those who didn't dance no matter how furiously I would up the tempo but instead would hang about the DJ watching as he played the records and trying to speak to him over the boom of the music. I was always polite to these people, usually girls, but did not give them more than the smallest attention while watching like a hawk incase they were out to nick my records. I had lost copies that way in the past.

Carl, however, did not look like a thief as he hovered by the side of the small dais un which my disco was situated. He approached me and asked if I had a specific record I could play, I turned my head sideways to place an ear closer to his mouth and hear. Indeed I did have his request, it fitted the style of music I was playing so I told him I would play it next.

"Thank you," he mouthed.

About thirty minutes later he asked for another record to be played, I already had it lined up on the turntable ready to fade in as soon as the song then playing finished. I gave Carl a thumbs up and he smiled his thanks.

"Can I buy you a drink ?" Carl shouted.

"Thank you, I'll have a pint of Tartan bitter."

He disappeared then returned with a pint glass in each hand. he mounted the small stage, stood next to me behind the disco and handed me the drink.

"Thank you."

"Cheers."

"Cheers."

"I'm Carl," he said.

"Nigel," I nodded in reply.

In the light of the flashing disco colours I looked at the young guy who had just bought me a drink. He was younger than I was, kind of cute and I decided someone very easy to fancy . While my disco work and presentation was strictly a solo effort and I did nothing to encourage him to stay I certainly gave no indication that he should leave. So for the remainder of the evening Carl stayed by my side, as I took a record off the turntable he replaced it in the paper cover then filed it away in the large box I used to store my collection.

That evening my disco gained itself a roadie. A roadie meaning a general dogs body rather than a road manager. Carl would hump the heavy equipment out of the van at the start of a gig, help me set it up then do it all again in reverse at the end of the evening. He never asked for payment, never expected any and was happy with the drinks I paid for by way of a thank you. He was proud to have this small party in my music business, I knew he looked up to me even hero worshipped me and I fancied him. I fancied him something rotten but was uncertain how I could progress our friendship.

Were all this to have happened today I would no doubt have got him into bed that first night immediately after the disco at the leisure centre but thirty or more years ago society was so very different. I strongly suspected that Carl had the same feelings as I did, there were small and subtle signs but in 1976 nobody would ever speak out without a lot of caution to say they were gay and it was a question you could never, ever pose to anyone. I wanted to move my sexual experiences of other men, such as they were, to a higher level. Naked sauna sessions with Steve were routine but I needed more than mutual nudity, I needed to actually have sex. I wanted to have sex with Carl.

At night I would lay in bed fantasising about him, when I wanked it was Carl's face I saw in my mind. I wondered if Carl thought the same as I did. Did he see my face when he had a wank ? Homosexuality in 1976 was a closed subject, to someone on the outside and looking in it was an enigma. How could I find out more ? How did the actual mechanics work ? How could I share my feelings ?

As it happened matters worked themselves out, I suspect it was Destiny taking a hand or perhaps it was a force of will powered by the hours of longing fantasy with which I had surrounded Carl. In the early part of that hottest summer on record Carl and I became lovers.

The pub where I had my DJ residency was going to run the bar at the town carnival, hiring a large marquee in which to run the beer tent. Throughout the fun of the afternoon I would provide a disco in the beer tent, well just outside it to be exact. The carnival ground was set out on a large council owned sports field. Although the beer itself, bar fittings, furniture and my disco equipment was arranged to be delivered early on the Saturday morning the marquee contractors insisted the large tent was erected the day before. The field was fenced off and reasonably secure but the landlord asked if Carl and I would sleep on guard inside the bar tent. We agreed but instead of sleeping inside a giant marquee we too a small tent to pitch alongside. I had booked a week off work starting on the Friday and Carl called in sick.

The day before the carnival was a scene of hyper activity as not only was our beer tent marquee set out but so were many smaller stalls and sideshows. Work continued until after dark then finally Carl and I crawled into our tent.

"I'm knackered."

"Me too,! I agreed, "and filthy with it." The heat of the day had made sweat from our bodies mingle with the dirt of hard labour making us very uncomfortable. "I'll have to go home in the morning and have a bath before the carnival starts."

Carl produced a key which he waved in front of me. "The groundsman gave me this before he left, said we could use the toilets and showers in the pavilion."

Showers ! A shower with Carl ! The prospect of getting clean was inviting but nothing like as inviting of doing it naked in a shower with Carl.

"Well done."

"Let's have a shower and then we can eat something before bed."

Precisely that same heaviness between my legs I had experienced at my first sauna with Steve returned but in returning did so with a vengance. As we walked across the field, towels slung over our shoulders I fought to avoid a full scale hardon. I had managed to control the phenomena for the sauna with Steve but Carl was different, very different. I didn't fancy Steve but god how I fancied Carl. I did my best but as we undressed I still had the hint of a semi which I could do nothing more to control. For a young man of twenty-three a boner, as we used to call it, was a perfectly natural state to be in - later I hoped I would be proud to demonstrate to Carl just how stiff my dick could be but for that shower it had to be limp and still. I did manage top control myself but can not properly tell you how, the faintest semi remaining I hoped was not noticeable and if Carl was looking I trusted the state would be regarded as an indication of a larger dick size than I could rightly claim.

As I have told you, Carl was younger than I - just nineteen against my twenty-three in that hot summer of 1976. Nineteen years that had worked every day to produce in my friend a beautiful example of stripped, naked manhood. Carl's hair was dark, so dark it was almost black. On his head it was cut stylish, that same dark colour was to be found in a thick yet well-formed pubic bush. Hair continued on Carl's legs while his stomach and chest were smooth. No, he wasn't muscled like Steve but his lean body was to me more attractive. Slim but not skinny, lean but not weak. My eyes flicked over it all as we made small talk and washed away the heat and grime of the day. I watched Carl and knew he too was regarding my body. It could only be a matter of time before the watching moved to something better. 

We toweled ourselves dry but I did not want to put back my unclean clothes and neither did I wish to dress in that I planned to wear at the carnival the next day.

"Just wear underpants," Carl suggested, "after all we aint going anywhere other than our own tent and it is so bloody hot."

"Good idea."

Much to my lasting regret I don't have any pictures of Carl but when I found this gallery on the Net shivers ran down my spine - so alike to my friend is the guy in these photographs. When I talk here in my autobiography of Carl you can think of him looking just like this. Click the thumbnails to view a larger image.

So we sat in our underpants and ate the sandwiches we had brought along for our supper.

"I like your chest," Carl said. "I hope you don't mind my saying that."

Of course I did not mind. Hair had sprouted on my chest when I was just sixteen and quickly covered my upper body. (The picture on the left is how I look today, not quite so slim as I was in 1976 but the air hasn't changed.) I smiled and ran my fingers through that hair.

"It's kind of sexy," Carl continued, "and sexy when you do that. I hope I get a hairy chest like you."

I repeated the running of my fingers.

"Would you mind," Carl began then hesitated, "would you mind if I did tat ?"

I smiled, my smile saying go ahead.

The tent was small, too small to stand up so I shuffled to kneel in front of Carl and present him with my hairy chest. He too knelt then raised a hand. He held it palm towards me then lowered it slowly to rest on my left nipple. Inside my underpants things stirred as a huge pent up force prepared to be released. Carl let his hand slide down then up again as he explored my chest. Finally Carl lay both of his hands on my chest, I reached behind him, my arms round his waist and locking fingers together.

"We are good mates aren't we ?" Carl said.

"The very best of mates," I confirmed.

"Gay mates ?" Carl said quietly.

The word gay was new and not in everyday use as it is now yet I knew the meaning it was then taking. As Carl spoke the three letters to make up the word it sounded beautiful.

"Yes." That was all I said, it was all I needed to say. A confirmation of a dream come true, Carl and I were indeed gay mates.

We lay down on top of the two sleeping bags spread out on the tent groundsheet and pressed our bodies together. We were made for each other as the shape of one fitted so perfectly against its mate. We had not taken off our underpants but through those thin layers of cotton two solid and throbbing cocks introduced themselves. I could feel the heartbeat of my friend as it pounded against my chest to mingle with the heavy drum of my own. I was transported to a new dimension, to an astral plane where sensual perfection abound. I was deliriously happy.

I felt Car's hands move to rest on my buttocks. "We should take these off," he said quietly.

"Of course."

And ten we were once more naked. An overwhelming desire came over me to kiss Carl, it was as if nature or destiny, one of the two, was telling me this was the next act in our lovemaking. My lips sought out his and we locked together. It was Carl wo slipped his tongue into my mouth and began to explore. God how wonderful ! The measurement of time went into a period of suspension, I can not tell, I can not remember, for how long we kissed. There then followed more furious kissing as we both pecked with our mouths at one another's bodies. It was Carl who eventually spoke.

"Suck me off Nigel."

I was a virgin, I awoke from my dream to consider the invitation. Was I ready for this ? If I had at all thought out what the conclusion of things were to be I would not have anticipate anything more than some simple mutual wanking.

"Suck me off Nigel - please."

A hand reached to take a hold of Carl's cock. It was hot, hard and twitching. Within its length I could feel a pulse of anticipation. My friend lay on his back and spread his legs, I knelt in position between them. A forest of apprehension surrounded me but I ignored all fears to allow an inner basic instinct to control me.

As my head gently lowered towards Car a new smell filled my nostrils, a scent I now know to be that of burning testosterone. Closer and the aroma intensified. Closer still and I could taste it on my lips I used a and to steer Carl's manhood up towards me then pecked a tiny kiss on its head. My friend groaned with pleasure. Nervously my lips parted slightly then formed a circle round the top of the head. Sparks of electricity arced between our bodies.

Like so many guys I had fantasised about being able to take my own cock into my mouth, of course it was impossible but the impossibility did not prevent my dreaming. To be able to perform such a magnificent act would indeed be glorious but nowhere anywhere near the measure of taking another guy's cock into my mouth. Then for that to belong to Carl, how totally awesome.

There was a taste, a taste hinted at in that heady aroma but a taste that was unique as I allowed more of my friend to slip inside my mouth. It was a taste that equated with the musky scent now filling the air about us. The earlier sense of nervous hesitation which just moment earlier had pulled at me was now gone and replaced with a level of sexual expertise incongruous with one so naive and inexperienced. I allowed my tongue to play about this new companion inside its kingdom. I tantalised Carl's manhood to produce deep groans of pleasure. More... I took in more of the throbbing length, more and more as I amazed myself just how much I could contain. I remember trying to estimate the size of my friend and how much of that cock I could contain. It really wasn't a problem to hold it all and soon my face was pressing against that thick dark bish of pubic hair.

What now ? I recall thinking that - what now ? Was I still a virgin ? Strange how I can think back to that thought passing through my mind. I could not answer it then and I am not sure I can answer it today. What now ? That inner instinct provided the answer. My head moved upwards just a fraction then my lips closed tightly forming a seal half way down Carl's length. I then began to suck for all I was worth, dragging air from my mouth to hold my friend in an oral vacuum. Then filling my mouth with air to start a new, I repeated the action.

Again and again I went through this process until Carl arched his back to press up towards me. He was close to cuming, I knew that. Should I relax ? Should I let go ? Before I could debate an answer my mouth filled with a hot liquid. I thought I would gag but the natural instinct was to swallow. I drank my friend's jizz, like warm fresh honey it trickled down the back of my throat. I felt its descent all the way to my stomach and then I let go.

We ere both panting for breath, the exertion was as if we had run a mile in record time. My heart was racing like an express train to force oxygen into my brain and muscles. Carl rolled over to lay on his stomach then pressed up on all fours.

"Fuck me," he said.

If my earlier activities had taken away my virginity or not that virginity was shortly, without question, to become a thing of history. It is a certain fact that some areas of life instinct count for much more than learning or gathered experience. A doctor has to train for years before he can perform a complex operation, a craftsman has to pass through a long and structured apprenticeship, even if a gifted singer or actor needs voice coaching and direction all I needed was a simple instinct.

Carl had the most wonderful arse any man had ever been blessed with since God created Adam and set him in the Garden of Eden. Were my friend to have lived at the time of Michelangelo the sculptor would have used him as an inspiration to shape his famous David. Had he lived in ancient Greece the population would have acclaimed him a god come down from Mount Olympus and his name would have passed into mythology as the most beautiful of all the gods. Of all the arses to which I could yield my virginity I was being offered the zenith of perfection.

My hands slid themselves across the cheeks, gently caressing before tipping their fingers into the line bisecting the rounded surface. I felt for where I needed to be and eased in the index finger of my right hand. It met slightly more resistance than I had anticipated, the thought struck me that my finger was several times smaller than my now throbbing cock. How ever would it fit inside ? As I moved my finger about I felt things widen and soon I was penetrating Carl with not one but two fingers. Never before had my heart beat quite so fast, never before had the demand for adrenalin been so great. This was it, now was the time. My fingers withdrew then took hold of my cock which they steered between Carl's cheeks and into the place where it belonged. It needed little guidance and was soon uniting our bodies as one.

A heady drug took over my mind, lifting me to realms of pleasure I had never thought possible. That mind bathed in this bliss as my body performed with a will all of its own. The two were separate yet co joined as Carl and I were also two different people made one. I could read his mine to experience all that he was feeling and believe he was able to do the same. What unspeakable joy. Any measurement of time was put on hold, the world did not matter, the unfolding universe itself was suspended as Carl and I made love. Yes it was love - hours before I had fancied Carl to excite myself when I saw him naked in the shower, now it was more. So much more.

An older guy is only a twink with life experience. If only I could combine the life experience I have now with my youthful body and good looks, those I had when Carl and I first had sex together it would be remarkable what we could achieve. No, wait how about this ? If I could take that youthful body and looks from 1976 and bring it to the present day, combining it with my knowledge and experience and live in modern-day society with its liberal attitudes towards homosexuality and all the technological advances we take for granted what a utopia that would be. But these can only be dreams, no point in expanding them and wasting words on that which can never be. Best to get on with the autobiography.

Carl and I continued our sexual explorations well into the night then fell into a naked sleep, entwined in each other's arms. It was hot, we lay on top of our sleeping bags laid out on the tent's groundsheet. As I drifted in slumber a conscious mind would ask if this had been a dream, then I would feel Carl's body against my own, sense his deep breathing and warm breath. No this was real.

I awoke with the early dawn as bright sunlight pierced the thin fabric of the tent. My eyes opened, I saw Carl looking at me.

"Mates," he said, "gay mates."

When he had said those words the previous night they formed a question, now they were a statement of fact. We were still naked. "You look good without any clothes on," I said.

My friend smiled.

Covering ourselves with shorts and tee shirts we crossed back over the field and into the pavilion to take another shower. Even at that early hour several of the carnival's oganisers were turning up to prepare for the big event. Once we had eaten a makeshift breakfast there were stall holders, event personnel and all kinds of different people scurrying about like a swarm of busy ants. The lorry with the beer, bar equipment and my disco gear turned up at which work for Carl and I began in earnest. As we unloaded the disco and set it up I would look at Carl and smile, smile and think how much he had changed me in the past few hours. I recalled the simple pleasures I had previously known, those of being naked with other lads in the showers at school, those naked guys in the visits with Steve to the sauna and then how I fantasised about Carl. How wonderfully things had moved way, way beyond all that. Life was a ball, life was a party, life was a sex party. I knew for certain I was no longer a virgin.

Fifteen thousand people flocked to the carnival field, thronging through the gates to pass a colourful steam traction engine powering an old fairground organ. (Click the picture on the left to listen to this music.) A significant proportion of that crowd eventually made its way to the beer tent, avoiding the burning sun and seeking refreshment. Carl and I entertained  We certainly livened things up playing music like: FERNANDO UNDER THE MOON OF LOVE SEASONS IN THE SUN and BYE BY BABY (Click the titles to listen) It was a fantastic party. The heat was so great we wore no shirts, just shorts and beach flip-flops.

"You aint half got a sexy chest," Carl shouted in my ear over the music.

I knew what part of my friend's anatomy I found sexy !

The top music publication on the 1970's was Melody Maker, a weekly pop newspaper with a circulation in excess of quarter of a million. It had all the latest music news and above all it gave you the Top Fifty charts for singles sold over the past week. Today nobody is particularly interested in this but in 1976 you had to be from another planet not to know who was top of the pops. Something else, over the months of June, July and August it listed details for Radio One's daily Roadshow. I had a copy of the previous week's edition in the record box, I picked it up and opened at the page listing the Radio One Roadshow and venues for the coming week.

When the BBC launched its new pop radio station in 1967 (Click the logo on the left to hear the first broadcast of this new radio station) it was considered a poop attempt to replace the now outlawed pirate radio stations. Do you have the faintest idea what I am talking about ? Let me explain - let me learn you something !

The best pop radio station by far was Radio Luxembourg - CLICK HERE - broadcast from the tiny country of Luxembourg in Europe. Here in England the BBC was dull and boring - not a lot different than today eh ! A series of enterprising guys saw a gap in the market to set up commercial radio stations in direct opposition to the BBC. No way would they ever be given licenses to broadcast so they set up their stations on ships anchored just outside British territorial waters. They played pop music and sold air time to advertisiers. These stations, known as pirate radio stations, were incredibly popular - the best known was Radio Caroline.

The bastard government decided it was going to close down these pirate radio stations and passed what was called The Marine Offences Act. It could do nothing directly about the stations which were outside British legal waters so instead the act made it illegal for anyone in Great Britain to supply anything to the stations or to place any advertising with them. What sods ! By cutting off the money in this way the authorities forced the stations off the air. Pop music fans were outraged but sneaky politicians offered them a new radio station from the BBC - radio One.

The BBC hired many of the DJ's who had previously worked on the pirate stationsand that was that ! To begin with Radio One was a poor copy of the pirate stations but the power of the BBC forced it onto the public. An early Radio One jingle sang Radio One is wonderful - BBC We countered with our own version - Radio One is wonderful - like migraine headaches ! You can hear this Radio One jingle by licking the picture on the left.

The years went by, radio One became a little more established - first of all tolerated and then even liked, the pirate radio stations passed into history and were forgotten. During the summer months the Radio One Roadshow was very popular. I flicked through the copy of Melody Maker to see where it was to be held the next week.

Monday - Towan Beach - Newquay - Cornwall. I had an idea.

"Can you get some time off work next week ?" I asked Carl.

"I'm a casual laborer on a building site, I can do what I like."

I already ad the coming week as a holiday from my job so suggested to Carl that after the carnival we unload the disco gear at my flat, throw the tent and sleeping bags into the van then drive down to Cornwall and check out the Radio One Roadshow.

"I've a disco booking on Saturday that I have to be back for but I'm sure I could fix cover for the pub residency so we could stay for a week. L:et's drive down tomorrow.

Carl was well up for that, neither of us then could wait for the carnival to be over so we could head off to Cornwall. That night Carl stayed over at my place, I had just the one single bed which we shared holding tightly one tone another's naked body.

Our Cornish Adventure:

We made our decision to go to Cornwall on a Saturday and to leave the next day so visiting a bank was out of the question. I thought about asking the pub landlord to cash a cheque for me but after pooling the money I had, that Carl had and the disco fee for the carnival we decided we had sufficient.

Cars have also improved in reliability and comfort thirty fold in thirty years and my little Vauxhall Viva van was an old banger held together by faith and propelled by good luck. I have told you it was previously owned by British Rail, they thrashed it, I reckon when engines were short they hitched it up to pull the London to Glasgow express. To take the van hundreds of miles from home risking punctures, breakdowns and all associated perils was bravery worthy of a mention in dispatches and required the tightest possible crossing of fingers on both hands.

But my clapped out old old yellow Vauxhall Viva had the very, very latest technology when it came to car music, it had an eight track stereo unit ! Forget your MP3 players and i-pods, forget your multi disc CD player and portable DVD units I had an eight track stereo. The player resembled a tape cassette player but with a much wider mouth. The cassette itself, that's a pic of one on the left, was a plastic box measuring about four inches by six inches and three quarters of an inch thick. Inside was a spool of brown magnetic tape which constantly turned, you did not have to rewind an 8-track. On to this magnetic tape were recorded eight separate tracks of music. Reproduction was vastly superior to a standard tape cassette but it was not possible to record your own tapes and buying the prerecorded albums was expensive. Although the 8-track was the ultimate sound system in 1978 in the years to come it would go the way of the Beatamax video ending up in a technological oblivion. However, at the time I am here describing my 8-track and collection of tapes was possibly worth more than the Vauxhall Viva van itself ! Not that, that would have been very difficult.

It truly was a major journey for my old Vauxhall Viva Van to undertake, perhaps equated with a geriatric grandmother entering the London Marathon minus her zimmer frame, not impossible but not something to be advised easily. But hey when you are young you don't let incidentals like caution or common sense get in the way of having fun !

We made an early start, it was barely light as we joined the M4 motorway and began driving West. We were as excited ad two small children being given unlimited access to the sweetie jar. Carl had advanced my sexual repertoire and I was looking forward to even greater things once we arrived in Cornwall.

Carl reached across the passenger seat to place his right hand on my left leg. He moved it inwards and upwards causing the semi-hard cock I had tucked inside my jeans to stiffen. I glanced at the speedometer - sixty five miles an hour ,almost top speed for the van, then to the rear view mirror - some traffic about and gaining on us but not many vehicles about. I began to undo the belt button.

"Hey let me do that, you concentrate on driving."

Carl flipped open my jeans, slid down the zipper then placed his hand inside my underpants.

"You steer and I'll use this to change gear."

My friend held me that was all along the M4, past Bristol and on to the M5 motorway from wehere we began to head South-West.

"Much as I would love you to hold me that way for ever," I began to explain, "we shall have to stop soon to buy some petrol."

Carl smiled then chuckled.

There have been many changes to British society over the past three decades, this trip down memory lane is personally fascinating as I recall and share some of them with you. Thinking back to 1976 and writing this autobiography there is much I can hardly recognise, were I have been able to look forward and see into the early twenty-first century I would have thought it all an impossibility opf science fiction. But there is one thing that has remained ever constant, no change from then to now - British motorway service stations were crap in 1976 and they are still crap ! All ideas of quality, service and value for money has managed to pass them by without even scratching the surface. The thing is if you need petrol or are starving for something to eat or bursting for a wee you have little choice. That early morning Carl and I wanted all three.

We pulled off the M5 into Brent Knoll service Station, for some reason they call it Sedgemoor Services today, filled the Vauxhall Viva with petrol, pointed Percy at the porcelain then stood in line at the self-service cafeteria. If one closed ones eyes and depended alone on the sense of smell the breakfast on offer was good, it was only when the sense of sight was engaged that it all went wrong. But we were hungry. Bacon, sausage, fried bread, fried potatoes, mushrooms and a generous helping of baked beans.

Hell I wouldn't eat baked beans today no matter what you paid me ! The leading brand of this disgusting food used to advertise on television with a jingle - A million housewives every day pick up a tin of beans and say Beans means Heinz. An alternative ditty in common use ran: Beans, beans are good for your heart, the more you eat the more you fart ! I do believe the ingredient responsible for this flatulence side effect has been reduced in the product but let me tell you there is no way today you could possible force me to eat baked beans !

"How long do you reckon," Carl asked, "before we get to Cornwall ?"

"Cornwall or Newquay ?" I countered. "Once we get to Exeter it's the end of the motorway and the roads are poor, I remember that from coming here on holiday as a kid. It took ages."

"So how much longer ?"

"Another four hours, perhaps a bit less, perhaps a bit more."

"I'll get us some cans of Coke from the shop, we can drink them as we go along."

Cans of Coca Cola, that sends me off down another avenue of memory lane. I am actually sipping from a can of Coke as I scribble the draft notes for this part of my story but it's a rather different can today from those Carl got from the motorway service station. He would have paid about 20p for a can then, today the same motorway service station would charge about 85p. But it's not the price I recall as the major change over the period.

Coca Cola and other drinks manufacturers began putting drinks into small metal cans for the mass market as an alternative to glass bottles at the end of the 1960's and very popular they soon became. These early cans were 100% sealed containers that needed a special opener to enable anyone to drink from them. The opener clipped over the rim and punched a triangular hole into the lid. You then turned the can round through 108 degrees to punch a similar hole opposite it. One hole was to drink out of while the other allowed air in as the liquid was taken out. If you look at a modern-day can you will see how it tapers at the top, this is to enable the drinker to press the can against his bottom lip and tip the opening towards his mouth. Cans in 1970 were perfectly cylindrical.

It was some time in the early 1970's that the ring pull was invented so dispensing with the need to have a special opener. Now and then these openers turn up on stalls at car boot sales when nobody has a clue what they are ! A portion of the tin's top surface was weakened and attached to a ring which could be lifted up and the index finger inserted. By sharply pulling the ring this weakened slip of aluminum peeled away making a hole through which you could drink. One of the problems was the ring could come away leaving the weakened cover still in place. When this happened you simply took anything to hand and bashed the top of the can until it broke off and fell inside. You did need to be careful, however, not to end up swallowing it ! Another difficulty was the way drinkers would just throw aside the ring pull littering the ground. The flip-top can which solved both of these problems was still ten or more years away when Carl and I were on our way to Cornwall.

So there you go, five hundred words on the history of the drink can. How bloody interesting ! Back to the story !

Once back on the road it was Carl who unzipped his jeans and invited me to slip a hand inside. Speed was fairly constant, I could drive comfortably with just one hand while the other enjoyed the contents of my friend's underpants. Holding that hot, hard shaft in the fist of my left hand the miles simply slipped away. How I wanted to wank him as we drove along but to do so would have been dangerous, how would we later explain to any attending emergency services why only one hand was on the wheel and the other between Carl's legs ? Through the county of Somerset I held on to him and into Devon, only letting go when we reached Exeter and the end of the M5 motorway.

"Can you get the map book," I said, "I'm going to need you to give me directions from now on."

I had written out a rough route on a sheet of paper: Exeter - Oakhampton - Launceston - Bodmin - Newquay. Still 83 miles to go.

"Let's stop and have a wank," Carl said. "You've got me so much in need of cuming."

Yes, we used the word cuming to mean the act of ejaculation, that hasn't changed over time, but I think we spelt it coming back then.

Car's observation sparked in us both an urge to sing. There was a silly rendition of the song "She'll be coming round the mountain" with a heavy emphasis on the word coming.

What ? You don't know the song ? You must be joking ! Click the map of our route on the left to hear a "clean" version of the song. 

The way we sang it went:

He'll be COMING round the mountain when he COMES

He'll be COMING round the mountain when he COMES

He'll be COMING round the mountain

He'll be COMING round the mountain

He'll be COMING round the mountain when he COMES

Singing I will if you will so will I

Singing I will if you will so will I

Singing I will if you will

Singing I will if you will

I will if you will so will I

The composition of those words would hardly have taxed any song writer but we enjoyed them belting out the little number time after time for mile after mile. We were deliriously happy, god wasn't it good to be young ! We would likely as not continued our singing all the way to Newquay had it not been for Carl who suddenly yelled. "Oh shit I've cum !"

"Yeah, yeah much of the reckons !" (Do you recall that expression to exclaim disbelief ?)

"I have, honestly. Can you stop ?"

My friend was in a bit of a mess.

"It'll dry," I suggested.

"Yeah and glue my knob into my underpants. I need to get changed."

Ahead of us the road was closely edged by farmland and granite stone walling. Spotting a gap where there was an entrance to a field pulled off the road to allow Carl to climb into the back of the van.

"I just need to put on some clean pants and I've a pair of football shorts in my bag somewhere."

"Well hurry up I don't fancy explaining to a farmer coming along with a tractor why we are blocking the gate to his field."

"Ooooarrr," Carl mocked in a take off of a West Country Accent.

Even if the windows of the Vauxhall Viva were open against the heat of the day it quickly filled with the scent of Carl's testosterone. Lovely !

We were soon enough back on our journey and having already passed through the town of Oakhampton were heading towards Launceston.

"There's The Jamaica Inn on Bodmin Moor," I explained, "I remember it from coming this way when I was a kid. We could stop there for a break before we finish the journey to Newquay if you like."

"OK."

The Jamaica Inn is the setting for Daphne du Murrier's famous novel of the same name but in 1976 it was also famous for being owned by the thriller writer Alister Maclean. I explained this to Carl.

"You mean the guy who wrote Where Eagles Dare and Ice Station Zebra ?"

"And where Eight Bells Toll," I added

"Do you think he'll be there ?"

"I doubt it, I don't think he serves behind the bar." (Click the picture below of The Jamaica Inn to find out more of this history of this famous old landmark.)

"I'd like to be a writer," Carl said.

"Yeah, what are you going to write ?"

"Gay pornography," he giggled.

"And spend all your life in gaol for breaching the Obscene Publications Act ?"

"Times will change."

"Perhaps."

I allowed the Vauxhall Viva a well earned rest in the car park of The Jamaica Inn while Carl and I firstly visited the loo to relieve ourselves of the coffee and Coca Cola which had been gathering force since Brent Knoll Services back up the M5 then filled up again in the bar. We were served by a young guy with a strong Australian accent.

"I'm sorry we don't sell Tartan Bitter," he explained.

"Oh dear."

"Red Barrel ?" Carl suggested.

Before I had discovered Tartan Bitter my drink had always been Watney's Red Barrel but by the side of the stronger flavored tartan it resembled diluted gnat's piss so I wasn't about to refresh myself with that and settled for larger. Carl and I took our drinks to sit down and discuss our journey. We had no booking for a camp site but felt confident we would find somewhere to pitch our tent. How wrong could we have been ?

Leaving the haunting Jamaica Inn and its good-looking Australian barman we started up the Vauxhall Viva and were soon on the road again. The traffic was increasingly heavy and the road narrowed in direct proportion to the land mass of the Cornish Peninsular. Carl had the map book spread open on his knees.

"Stay on this road and head for a place called Indian Queens, make sure you don't turn off towards Wadebridge. Then follow signs for Newquay."

"Got that."

Progress was slower and slower, by the time we reached the edge of Newquay it was mid afternoon.

"We could do with some more petrol, we can stop at the next garage and ask directions for a camp site."

"You've not got a pitch booked then." the man at the garage said.

"No," I confirmed.

"Then I'll be doubting you'll be finding anywhere about here to stay."

Our faces fell.

"You best be driving away from Newquay, try up the coast towards Padstow way. You may be lucky."

"Thanks."

We had been traveling since early that morning, we were tired and wanted to rest but even as we took the coast road North out of Newquay and passed many camp sites all had the same sign on display - No Vacancies.

Something the accumulated years of life experience since those times when I was a twink have taught me is to carefully plan anything before rushing into it. I was weary, tired by the journey, tired after the carnival disco of the day before and tired from a lack of sleep after a night in bed with Carl. The coast road was not easy to drive along, the Vauxhall Viva's engine groaned as it panted up the steep climbs after which the brakes squealed on the descent. The road twisted, was narrow and bordered by awesome dry stone walls, clip one of those and the side of the vehicle would be ripped apart. I was beginning to feel worried, we had to find somewhere soon.

Even if the sign did echo all others to confirm no vacancies I decided to stop and throw myself on the mercy of who ever owned or managed the camp site.

"I really would like to help you young fellows but it's the council see, rules - very strict rules they be having on how many people I can have staying."

"Do you know anywhere," I pleaded, "that may have space ? There's only the two of us, a small tent and the car."

"Mmmm, let be think."

Please, I wished silently.

"You could try up at Trethias."

"Where ?"

"Trethias Farm, up at Treyarnon Bay. It's a cattle farm but the owner keeps a couple of fields for campers and touring caravans. It doesn't go in for fancy club houses and having a bar, it's quite simple really but I'd say it's your best chance."

"Thank you, thank you very much. How do we get there ?"

"I'll tell you what, I'll speak to him on the telephone and ask. Save you driving all the way there without you being certain."

"Thank you, thank you very much."

"Just two of you and one small tent you say ?"

"And the car, but it's onlya small car, a Vauxhall Viva."

"Very good. You just wait here, I'll not be keeping you long."

"Thank you."

"What'll we do if this place is full as well ?" Carl asked.

I didn't know.

"I suppose we could always sleep on the beach."

"The sand would get everywhere."

"Everywhere ?"

"Everywhere."

"You two boys would be in luck."

Thank goodness.

"He says he can fit you in and to go straight up there."

"Oh thank you."

"It's a pleasure. Now how to get there: continue driving the way you were going, head towards Padstow. When you get to a little village called Saint Merryn you need to bear left then keep going past the golf course. When the road divides don't be taking the road to Trevose Head, take the way to Treyarnon Bay. Keep going and you can't miss it, Trethias Farm. Go too far and you'll be in the sea, it's right on top of the cliff." He laughed.

We repeated our thanks and were on our way. Carl had carefully remembered the directions to guide us those last few miles to our destination.

He was a caricature , a cross between Wurzel Gummage and Adge Cutler, even the way he talked made it hard for us to keep a straight face but this kindly gentleman was our salvation. 

(Pictured left in Wurzel Gumage from a BBC children's television programme of the time. Click the picture to watch a clip. Below left is Adge Cutler from a comedy band. Click his picture and listen to one of his hit numbers.)

"Ooooarrr," he began in a thick Cornish accent, "how long will ye be wanting to stay ?"

"Just until Friday," I confirmed. I had to be back home on Saturday for the disco booking.

"Arrrr that'll be alright then. I'll show ye where ye can put ye tent."

"Thank you."

"Just two things I would ask ye."

"Yes."

"There baint be much water down ere so please don't be wasting any. I don't want cows to go thirsty 'cos the mains have run dry."

"Of course."

"And I'd be asking you if ye'd be careful when ye cook, don't be setting the grass on fire."

"We can cook in the back of the van," I volunteered.

"Arrrr that'll be alright then. My wife has a little shop up at the farm if Ye be needin' to buy any food."

That was good news, we didn't have a thing with us to eat. As soon as we had pitched the tent we went in search of this shop from where we stacked up with bread, milk, butter, eggs, sausage, bacon, instant mash potato and a packet of surprise peas.

"We'd better have some cans of Coke," Carl added to the list.

"I don't sell cans," she explained. "People rip the ring pull off then throw em on the ground. The cows eat em and we have to be getting the vet out."

"I see."

"I've got bottles."

"That would be fine."

"I got cold uns in the fridge as well."

"That would be very good. Could we have two please ?"

"Now have yee boys got a cooler box 'cos that food baint goin' to last long in this heat ?"

We didn't.

"I sell cooler boxes," she explained.

"I'll pay for it," Carl offered.

"I'll give ye two of them there blue block which I've frozen in my freezer and ye'll be alright with em."

"Thanks."

"Ye bring em back tomorrow when they've thawed out and I'll swap em for two new frozen ones."

"You are very kind."

"Now is there anything else ye boys be wantin ? A couple of post cards and some stamps so ye can write to your girlfriends back home ?" she smiled and winked an eye.

Girlfriend ? Girlfriend ? I didn't have a girlfriend, I had Carl - I had a boyfriend !

(Above is a photograph of Treyarnon Bay. Our tent was pitched in a field on top of the cliff on the left.)

There were such thinks in the dark ages of 1976 as domestic freezers but they were smaller than the vast chest units popular today, most were small combination fridge freezers. The variety of frozen foodstuffs available would appear frighteningly restricted against the tens of thousands of products on sale in a twenty-first century supermarket. Peas, ice-cream, meat pies and not a lot more. A typical 1976 menu used fresh, tinned and dried products, dried products such as Cadbury's Smash Potato and Surprise Peas. Let me take a moment to describe both of these delicacies as they featured in our dinner that evening.

Thirty years ago the potato was a potato was a potato, not the variety of Maris Piper, King Edwards, Desire and so forth. Like all agriculture the potato is harvested once a year. Those on sale in any shop would have been grown within say a hundred miles, no shipping bags half way round the world in order to maintain an all year round fresh supply. At harvest time potatoes were sacked into 56lb (about 20kg) bags then stored to be slowly sold through shops until the next harvest.

Before you could cook a potato it had to be washed to remove the mud, spuds on sale today have been prewashed. Next they had to be peeled. It was not uncommon to find small worms or grubs in them so they had to be cut out. If the potato had been bruised or caught the frost while being stored it would be black so any damage like this had also to be cut away. There were also things called eyes which had to be cut out. An eye was where a shoot had started to grow ready to start a new potato plant. Place a 1976 potato next to one from today and you could be excused for thinking they were not the same vegetable at all.

Yeoman was the first brand of dried potato, appearing in the late 1960's. Instead of this laborious preparation all that was needed to make mash potato was to pour boiling water o to the powder then stir it all up.

The chocolate manufacturer Cadbury's produced a more expensive, creamy instant potato which they called Smash. The advert ran For Mash Get Smash ! Television adverts for Smash have gone down in history as classics. Click the picture above to watch one of these ads.

OK so that was the potato, what about Surprise Peas ? Today we are familiar with tender frozen peas but thirty years ago a general nickname for peas was bullets. A lead bullet, however, would possibly have been soft compared with the average green pea served on any dinner plate. Tinned peas also had the most unappetising of tastes. Then came along Surprise Peas, both the taste and reputation of the humble pea was transformed. A packet of Surprise Peas contained a load of dried, shriveled green dots but once boiled in water they metamorpasised into tender, delicious peas. Sales of the product boomed.

So Cadbury's Smash and Surprise Peas joined the sausage to form our meal that day but my lesson here in social history isn't quite over yet. Don't worry we'll get to some more sex in a bit, trust me there is still a lot to come. But to return to some of the words in my early introduction to this story - Listen will you I'm trying to learn you something here.

We had offered to cook in the back of the Vauxhall Viva to avoid setting the dry grass in the field on fire, as we prepared our meal Carl and I honoured the pledge. You may well be familiar today with Camping Gaz, the blue cylinders that fuel outdoor burners, they were around in 1976 and haven't changed all that much since then but we didn't use Camping Gaz we had a primus stove which had seen use in World War Two. I had picked it up, with the mess tins in which we were cooking, from an army surplus store.

Right then, the primus stove, that's it on the left. It comprised a round brass tank which was filled with paraffin. On its top was a burner but you didn't just light the burner, nothing so simple. Around the tube which arose from the brass tank and fueled the burner was a small dish. This had to be filled with mentholated spirits and that lit. The almost invisible blue flame would then heat the tube from the fuel tank to the burner. Eventually this would become so hot that any paraffin passing through it would evaporate into a gas. When this happened the primus stove was ready to be lit. On the side of the tank there was a small pump with which you put the fuel under pressure so forcing it up the tube where it instantly turned into gas and ignite with a roar to provide an incredibly hot cooking flame, far better than any silly Camping Gaz stove. By regulating the tank pressure using a small release valve it was possible to reduce the heat. So there you go, the primus stove - see you've learned something there.

Now let me quickly explain the ex-army mess cans we were cooking in and then we can get back to the story.

These British Army mess cans were standard issue from about 1915 right up to the time, and beyond, that I am writing about. The army must have constantly over ordered supplies as they were always easily available from most camping shops. Pictured right, they comprised two rectangular boxes say 5 inches by 7 inches with one functionally smaller than the other so they could be packed together. Made from a metal which looked like aluminum and with fold out handles these mess tins or mess cans could be used both to cook in and to eat from. I had two sets which we juggled over the single primus stove to fry sausages, simmer the Surprise Peas and boil water for the Cadbury Smash.

The likes of motor-mouth Chris Moyles could not hack it with a live beach show. In 1976 only a small minority of the British population went abroad for their annual holiday, towns like Blackpool, Torquay and Newquay thrived. Today everything is reversed with the traditional British holiday resort in decline. But above all, if you ask me, twenty-first century music is just not compatible with the way the roadshow worked. Manufactured groups and machine engineered melodies just don't have the balls to succeed. Pop music today, whatever the modern-day twink may like to claim, is far less a pert of society than when I was a twink. But I don't have time here to mount a hobby horse so on with the story.

We left early, driving back across the coastal road to Newquay. Melody Maker magazine said the Radio One Roadshow was to be held at Towan Beach, we didn't have a clue where that was but it did not present a problem as the town was littered with small yellow signs directing the way. (I guess one beach is in danger of looking like another but that's Towan Beach on the right.) Amazingly it wasn't too difficult to park, we left the van then set off on foot in search of Towan Beach. Again it wasn't difficult, we just followed the crowd.

The Roadshow did not go on air until ten o'clock but by the time we made it to Towan Beach there were already several thousand people there. They sat about on the sand and on the grassy dunes rising up from the beach. Loud music was playing from banks of enormous speakers.

"Looks good," Carl said.

"Yes," I agreed.

"You should be a radio DJ, you're easily good enough."

"It would be nice but Radio One only employs a handful of guys, most of them are ex pirate radio, and there are thousands of mobile disco's like mine."

"But you would be good."

"Thanks."

"Why don't you start your own disco club ? Like Cesar's Palace ?"

"That would take millions to open."

"Well what about a pub with a disco ?"

"Still more money than I've got."

"But your disco is so good, everyone says so."

"Flattery."

"No, it's true. Wait here I've got an idea."

"Where are you going ?"

Carl tapped the side of his nose. "Wait and see, I'll be back."

What was Carl up to ?

Time moved on, thirty minutes and no sign of Carl. The crowd was getting bigger by the minute, I wondered not only where he had gone but also would he be able to find his way back to me in such a large gathering of people.

A warm up guy came onto the stage and started to loon about in preparation for the show and prepare the assembled crowd for what was going to happen. "Today's DJ," he explained, "is Noel Edmunds."

There was a cheer, particularly from the girls in the audience.

"Well at least it isn't Tony Blackburn," I said to myself.

The guy on stage was telling a joke which just wasn't funny. Nobody laughed. When he had finished making a fool of himself a girl appeared from backstage to hand him a note. He read it then lifted the microphone to his mouth.

"We're looking for Nigel from the Yellow Peril Disco, are you out there Nigel ?"

My face went red, I could feel it starting to glow like the warming bar of an electric fire.

"Nigel stand up and give me a wave."

Oh shit ! I looked about me

"Come on Nigel, Nigel from the Yellow Peril Disco where are you ?"

"We want Nigel," someone called, the chant quickly picked up until the whole crowd was chanting.

Shit ! I stood up and waved. Bugger !

Thousands upon thousands of people began to cheer. Above their calling the stand up stooge spoke, "Make your way down here Nigel, come back stage, we've got a surprise for you."

Carl what have you done ?

"Excuse me - sorry - can I just squeeze through here - thank you....." I began treading carefully through the seated crowd. On stage things moved on, music played and I appeared to have been forgotten. Carl what have you done ? The closer I got to the stage the tighter packed the crowd and then I saw Carl away to the left waving at me. By his side was a short fat man dressed in beach shorts and an open Hawaiian shirt. His ample stomach flopped over the waistband.

"Nigel," Carl beamed, "this is Julian."

Instinctively I held out my hand to shake with Julian taking hold of a limp and sweaty palm.

"I'm Julian," he said in an effeminate voice, "Carl has managed to persuade me to allow you on stage and to introduce one of the records." he turned and smiled at Carl. "I've spoken to Noel, he'll be presenting the show and says you can introduce Una Paoloma Blanca. Know it ?"

What a ridiculous question. "Of course," I said smiling.

This was surreal, I was about to appear live on national radio, on Radio One ! However had Carl managed to arrange this ? I looked at my friend who just winked in reply.

"It you would both like to come with me you can wait in the production caravan until it's time for you to go on stage. You can watch the engineers as they send the show to the transmitter. I'll call you in plenty of time before you need to be on stage."

I had butterflies, great big butterflies the size of eagles, each with flapping steel wings and wearing football boots. But I need not have worried, it went very well even if I say so myself. Noel Edmunds was very good and steered me through a small interview.

"I want everyone here at Towan Beach Newquay and everyone listening on their trannies (A tranny was a portable transistor radio.) to meet a young man who's down here on holiday - Nigel Say hello to everyone Nigel."

"Hi there." For the benefit of the crowd I waved.

"So Nigel you're a DJ ?"

"I most certainly am Noel."

"You run a mobile disco and have a residency at a pub called The White Hart."

"That's correct," I confirmed. "The Yellow Peril Disco."

"And Nigel you are going to introduce the next record for us."

"Thank you Noel. I'd like to dedicate this record to my good friend Carl and to all fans of the Yellow Peril Disco, particularly the regulars at the White Hart, I'll see you next week. So for you all here's Jonathan King and Una Paloma Blanca - The White Dove.

Noel Edmunds pushed the fader and the music started to boom out, I was a radio One DJ - well for a couple of minutes anyway. It was great to think how many millions of people heard me. Millions not just the few hundred who usually came to my disco's. I was about to walk off the stage when something took me over, the radio microphone I had used to introduce the record was on the desk, the voice fader was clearly labeled. With one hand I snatched the mike and with the other pushed the fader up. Before anyone knew what was happening I was at the front of the stage encouraging the audience to sing along. I've said before that I know how to play an audience, I played that one like never before. Hands in the air I encouraged the crowd on the beach to wave in time to the music. In the chorus I sang and took thousands on the beach singing along with me. I was having a ball, I may only be able to be a star for the playing time of just one record but I would make the most of it. Sorry to sound immodest but the crowd loved me. CLICK HERE to listen to Una Paloma Blanca.

When the music finished the crowd roared in applause for me but my mind had just sparked an idea, Radio One was behind me something even better was ahead.

Carl and I found some space to the side of the crowd from which to watch the rest of the roadshow.

"Well done you," Carl said proudly. "You were brilliant. I bet Noel Edmunds is bricking himself incase you steal his job."

I was about to thank my friend for fixing it all up and tyo ask him how he had done it when a young woman approached us.

"Nigel ?"

She had a notepad and a pen in her hand, I guessed at first she was after an autograph. Girls were always asking me at disco's for my autograph but they were little teeny boppers, she was older.

"I'm Melanie," she explained. "I write for Melody Maker. I'm following the roadshow, could I do an interview with you ?"

"Of course." I was dreaming.

"Would you mind if we went away from here, found somewhere to sit down and talk ? As soon as the show goes off the air they start to break it down and then we're off on the road for tomorrow's gig."

"No problem."

We walked back into Newquay where we found a bar open for lunch.

"I know it's early," Melanie said, "but I'm starving so I have to eat. Can I get you anything ? My treat."

We gratefully accepted, began talking and Melanie scribbled in hieroglyphical short hand. I told here all about Yellow Peril Disco, about the idea to drive to Cornwall for the roadshow.

"And you're the roadie for the disco ?" she said to Carl.

"I just help out."

"But it was you who sought out Jeremy and talked him into letting Nigel take part in the show ?"

Carl nodded.

"This will make a good story," she continued. "So would you like to be a radio DJ full time, did your quick taste of Radio One fire an ambition within you ?"

"No not really, I'd like to become a producer and to eventually launch my own record label."

Carl looked at me, he appeared confused - this was the first time he had heard of it. Of course it was new to him, I only had the idea as I was leaving the stage of the roadshow a few moments earlier.

"This sounds interesting," Melanie smiled. "Tell me more."

I blurted out all the thoughts that were still forming in my brain. "I want to call it Square Label Records."

"But being square means old fashioned."

"I know, it's all a pun. The label on the records will actually be square in shape but the music will be right up to date and at the front of what people want to listen to. Running the disco I know exactly what will work and what won't."

"You should talk to Jonathan King," Melanie suggested, "he's got his own label, UK Records."

"Do you know Jonathan King ?" Carl beamed.

"Not really," Melanie confessed. "I was name-dropping, I interviewed him once but I doubt he would remember me."

"I see."

"No, wait a minute." Melanie started to tap the table with her pen. "I'll tell you who I do know. Yes, I bet he'd help you."

"Who ?"

"Richard, Richard Branson of Virgin Records. You know Tubular Bells."

"Sure but Virgin seems like a silly name to me, I can't see it lasting."

"Richard's a millionaire and he's only twenty-six. I bet he wouldn't mind giving you some advice."

Advice from a man who thinks Virgin is a good name for a company ? I didn't think so but said nothing, just smiled. I could not understand why the music industry raved about this Richard Branson who had appeared from nowhere and published the LP Tubular bells. Still as Melanie said he was a millionaire and he was just a couple of years older then I was.

Melanie asked a few more questions for her article then closed here notebook. "Look I have to be off but if you do decide to start your own record label please, please get in touch. Here's my card, phone me I've loads ofcontacts you could use."

"Thanks."

"Oh before I go can you give me the address of where you are staying in Cornwall, just in case I need to get in contact again as I am writing up the story."

And ten she was gone.

"She was trying to chat you up," Carl sniggered.

"Nah."

"She fancies you. You should use that."

"I couldn't"

"You could. How do you think I got round that fairy Jeremy to get you on stage ?"

"You didn't !"

Carl smiled then said, "Life's a party and you only get one invitation."

The sneaky sod !

We returned to our camp site then spent the rest of the day relaxing on the beach. Carl wanted to hear more about the Square Record Label and I wanted to tell him al about my ideas but I need to think a few more things through first.

"I'll tell you all about it later this evening."

"Am I included ?"

"You bet you are !"

The Cornish Adventure Continues:

Tea was a tin of stewed steak with more Cadbury's Smash and Surprise Peas courtesy of the shop at the farmhouse. After we had eaten we lay down to rest and fell asleep. It was dark when we awoke.

"What time is it ?"

I reached for my torch then peered at my watch.

"Quarter past ten."

It felt later, it felt as if I had been asleep for hours. We were both fully dressed and hadn't got into bed. I shone my torch about the tent and the slight caught Carl's face. He squinted his eyes.

"You've been crying !" There were tears still running down his face. "What's the matter ?"

"It's nothing."

"Yes it is, what's up ?"

"I had a bad dream, that's all."

Instinctively I took hold of my friend to pull him closer to me. At first he resisted then gave way to tumble into my arms.

"Tell me what's the matter," I demanded.

His chest began to heave before he sobbed violently. "I dreamed," he began, "that you were a DJ on Top of the Pops, famous and didn't want me any more."

I felt a tear prick my own eye. "That would never happen, I'd never get to work on Top of the Pops and even if I made it bigger than Jimmy Saville I could never lose you."

"It's just that you are the best thing that's ever happened to me, my parents don't like me, I've got a crap job with zero prospects, all I have in the world is my friendship with you."

"Hey stop will you. Stop crying. You'll always have me. Let's get undressed and get into bed, let me tell you of my ideas for the Square Record Label."

Naked we slid beneath the cover of the unfolded sleeping bag we lay on top of the other unfolded sleeping bag which made up our bed. I lay back, my arms around Carl and he resting on my chest.

"Think about what you need for a hit record," I began. "You need singer, musicians and a song. Next a recording studio and then a factory to press the records. After that you have to distribute them to the shops and finally the song needs to be promoted in order to sell copies of the record."

I had everything worked out in my mind and believed I really could make The Square Record Label work.

"There are plenty of bands and singer-songwriters about," I continued. "We find the right one and sign a contract. We can hire a studio and session artists to make a master tape then pay for say a quarter of a million copies to be made. In that quantity they would cost just a few pence each. Jonathan King's got his own record label - UK Records, but he doesn't distribute himself, he contracts EMI to do it for him. This guy Richard Branson who started Virgin Records does the same so why couldn't we ? As for promotion I know you and I could so that together.

"That's wonderful," Carl sounded happier.

"We'll still need a lot of money to start the company and get running."

"You can have anything I've got," Carl interrupted.

"This is going to be a partnership," I explained, "Fifty-fifty between you and me but I've worked out how we can raise the money."

"Yeah ?"

"It'll take a year before we can start but I have worked the figures out in my mind, I've been thinking about it all day, and I know how we can do it."

"How ?"

"First of all you move in to live with me."

Carl became exited and started talking rapidly.

"Hang on, hang on let me finish. We live together at my place. We use my wages to pay the rent, buy food and pay all the bills. There won't be much left but we should both have something in our pockets. We then put your wages away every week into a special bank account. We also take every disco booking we can grab and all that money also goes into the account. Then in a year I think we'll have enough money saved to start the business."

"You want me to come and live with you ?" 

"Yes, is that all right ? I mean you parents won't stop you will they?"

"They don't care what I do. You want me to live with you ? Two gay mates together ?"

"Yes and two equal partners in the Square Record Label."

Carl held me tight

"Happy ?"

"Very."

"No more bad dreams."

"No."

A hand slipped down Carl's back and I brought it to rest on those two beautiful bum cheeks. We would soon enjoy sex to seal the deal of our new business partnership.

"Nigel, will you tell me something ?"

"Of course."

I thought the conversation of our living together or our new business venture was about to continue but Carl was moving to a new subject.

"Are there any lines on my arse ?"

"Lines ? What do you mean ?"

"You've seen my arse a lot now, I've tried to look myself in a mirror but it's not easy. Are there any lines across it ?"

"No." I was puzzled.

"Rub your fingers over my cheeks, can you feel any lines or ridges ?"

"No. You've got a beautiful arse."

"Are you sure ?"

"Of course I am sure."

"'Cos I'm sure I can feel lines there."

"There's no lines, what are you talking about ?"

"No marks left there from when I was caned at school ?"

Caned ? Corporal punishment was standard in English schools in 1976, when I had been at school I had been caned of course - everybody was and Carl would have been caned just the same. But as we talked then I felt angry that anyone would hurt my Carl. The palm of my hand sent out a healing touch to my friend's behind.

"But you left school years ago," I said.

"Three."

"So there couldn't be any cane marks now, the stripes only last a few days at the most." I had been caned myself so I knew.

"Sometimes it feels like the marks are still there."

"They are not I promise you. How many times did you get caned ?"

"Twenty, perhaps more."

"Oh my god ! What ever for ?"

"Smoking a few times, not doing homework, being late, bunking off, swearing at a teacher - well it wasn't swearing really, I called her a flat chested bitch - that's not swearing is it ?"

I laughed.

"Did you get caned ?" Carl asked

"Yes," I confessed. "Three times in all. I also got slippered a few times."

"I was slippered loads," Carl added. "I even got slippered in the nude once."

"What ? How come ? What for ?"

"Pissing in the showers after PE," Carl explained. "We all did it but I was the one the games teacher saw. He dragged me out of the showers bollock naked then whacked me three times. It bloody hurt."

"No one will hurt you again, I won't let them."

I had a deep sense of protection for Car. Of course nobody was going to use corporal punishment on him any more, his schooldays were now over, but there were other areas less than kind which I would protect him from. His parents were indifferent to him and his home life was quite miserable, when Carl moved in to share my little flat it would be different.

Corporal punishment was abolished in British schools in 1986, ten years after the time when my story is set. Below I have assembled three brief video clips to give you some idea what receiving the cane and the slipper was like. Click a picture to watch. 
A Sound Thrashing Taking a Good Swing Bare Arse Slippering 

"My grandmother used to say to me," I began, "that the very best way to hurt those who hurt you is to be a success. When you and I go into business together we are going to be fantastically successful. Let those who caned you at scholl look at that with envy."

"You really do want me to be a part of this ?"

"Absolutely, now no more bad dreams ! OK ?"

But we could not sleep, it was stiflingly hot and our minds were alive.

"Let's go for a walk," Carl suggested, "a midnight hike."

There was a lighthouse a couple of miles along the headland, we had seen its light the night before, and agreed to walk from our camp to its beacon. We dressed in just tee shirts, shorts and trainers but it was still hot.

Out of the camp site we walked, down on to the beach, across the sand then up on to the headland and back down to the next cove. A long beach with deep sandy dunes at its rear took us nearer to the light. (The pic on the left is of Trevose Head Lighthouse - I found this on the Net.) As we walked we talked about our record company, who would we sign for our first hit ? What kind of music would we concentrate on ? Carl wanted the genre typified by Bob Marley while I was more into straight pop, what has become known as the 1970's Glam Rock. I am now a great lover of Bob Marley's music but back then I hated it, we would ev to find a compromise.

You can listen to our personal styles of music.....click the picture below of Bob Marley to hear Carl's choice and the picture of Mud for my own. Hindsight is 20/20 but while both have become classics Bob Marley is immortal.

Looking on a map as I write my story I now know that beach to be Constantine Bay, we didn't know that as we left our few clothes in the dunes to skip naked across the sand and into the water. The cold water was a dramatic contrast to the hot night and took my breath away. Hell it was cold ! Then I was under water as Carl lunged forward, grabbed me and toppled me off my feet.  "You bugger, I'll get you for that !"

"You'll have to catch me first !"

We fooled and larked about in the water, wrestling with our bodies.

"Ball tig," Carl shouted. "You're it."

Like two silly little kinds we chased one another, each grabbing for the other's balls while he moved swiftly out of reach. I was oh so deliriously happy.

Once we left the water, with no towel to dry ourselves we were, in spite of the warm night, hideously cold.

"Let's run back to camp."

"Good idea."

It was almost four in the morning before we were back in bed, this time we were soon in a deep sleep. I awoke to Carl shaking me. "Nigel, Nigel wake up there's someone outside calling your name."

"Who ? What's that noise ?"

"It's a tractor I think, it's the farmer outside. What does he want ?"

"Mr Nigel ye be in there ?"

"Yes, just a minute."

We were both quite naked, I couldn't let him see inside the tent."

"Just coming."

"Arrr that'll be good then."

I rummaged about for something to put on and grabbed the damp football shorts from the previous night's swim. "Get dressed," I mouthed silently to Carl before scrambling out of the tent while trying hard not to allow whoever it was outside to see my friend minus his clothes. The bright sunlight hurt my eyes, I squinted to see the friendly farmer standing before me.

"I'm sorry to be waking you up but I thought this be urgent like. There's a telegram come for you, delivered just now to the farm.

Telegram ? How ? Nobody knew we were there. Telegrams don't usually bring good news. What ever was it ? The farmer held out the buff envelope containing the message.

For my younger readers perhaps I need to explain exactly what a telegram was. Older guys who can remember them may like to skip this part of the story. In the days before everyone had a mobile phone, many not even having a telephone in their home, light years before the Internet a telegram was the fastest way to send an urgent message to someone. To do this you went along to a post office and filled out your message on a special telegram form. You were charged for each word in the message. It was then transmitted through the phone wires to an office in the area where it was being sent. The words came out of a machine on a thin paper tape. This was then cut into strips and glued to another telegram form, placed in an envelope and specially delivered to the recipient. During World War II all servicemen who were killed or reported missing were notified to their next of kin by telegram. On a happier note it was, until telegrams were abolished, the custom to send telegrams to the bride and groom at their wedding. The best man would then read them out at the reception. 

There was a celebrated 1970's Glam Rock hit - Telegram Sam by T Rex. Click the window on the right to check this out.

"What's up ?" Carl said emerging from the tent.

"Somebody's sent me a telegram."

"I hope it baint be bad news," the farmer said. "Best ye open it and see."

But nobody knew we were there in Cornwall. How could someone send me a telegram ? Wait a minute, I'd told Melanie from Melody Maker, it must be from here. That would be it, she'd probably found she needed some more information for the article. That was it, of course. I opened the envelope.

The telegram was not from Melanie !

Please telephone me STOP Urgent STOP 01 394 6666 STOP Direct line to Top of the Pops production office STOP Want you on this Thursday's show. STOP Gordon Producer

I read it twice then showed it to Carl.

"Bad news ?" A curious farmer asked.

"No, no. I've got to telephone the BBC they want to contact me."

"You be the boy from the Radio One Roadshow in Newquay," the farmer smiled.

However did he know about that ? He did not look like a fan of pop music. "My daughter was there and she said she thought it was yee from the camp site who was there."

"I see."

"Ye best be telephoning them then, perhaps they want to make you into a big star."

"Yes. I mean no."

"There's a telephone box down by the farm, ye can be using that."

I saw Carl, our eyes met and deep inside a confusion of sadness and happiness. My smile did little to cheer his spirits.

"You best telephone," Carl said.

It transpired that Jonathan King had been incognito within the crowd at the Roadshow and liked the way I had introduced his record and enthused the crowd. He was going to sing live on Top of the Pops that Thursday where he insisted I again introduce him. Thursday evening Top of the pops on BBC1 Television had the highest viewer ratings of any TV programme. The show went out live with an invited audience, getting tickets to be part of that audience meant being on a waiting list for anything up to two years. Groups, bands, singers would willingly pay a king's ransom in order to appear, being on Top of the Pops was a certain route to success. And now I was going to be a guest presenter for the show, well at least for one show.

Top of the Pops had a different presenter each week who was always a top Radio DJ, this week it was to be the biggest of them all, Jimmy Saville. Jimmy had presented the very first edition of Top of the Pops back in 1964. (Click the picture on the left to find out more about Jimmy.)

"We start rehearsals at eleven in the morning," the producer explained over the telephone, "we shall need you here by then. Can you manage that ?"

Of course I would manage it, I'd have been a monumental fool not to. "Just one condition," I said.

"Young man this is Top of the Pops, nobody makes conditions."

"Well it's a favor really."

"Go on."

"My friend, my disco roadie Carl, it was him who set it up for me to be on the Radio One Roadshow, would it be possible for him to be in the audience ?"

There was a period of silence during which I made up my mind that if the answer was in the negative I would not be going myself.

"I think we would be able to manage that."

While I pumped money into the phone box I was told where to be, when and what to wear.

"Lucky we traced you down, we found the address where you are staying from some woman working on Melody Maker. Spot of god luck that. See you on Thursday then."

"See you Thursday."

I put the phone down and tried to contain my wild excitement, I could see that Carl was trying to his a different emotion.

"It's my dream," he said, "it's coming true."

"Don't be silly."

"It is, I can see it is. Now you are going to be a DJ on Top of the Pops. You won't need me and..."

"Stop it Carl ! I said firmly. "You and I are going into business TOGETHER, you are moving into my flat so we can live TOGETHER - TOGETHER - TOGETHER - TOGETHER ! Nothing is going to stop that. Yes I am going to be on Top of the Pops but we are going there TOGETHER !

He tried to smile.

"Now we will have to go home tomorrow so let's have a fantastic day today. How about we spend it on the beach then find somewhere special; to go to this evening and then -" I winked an eye.

This time he did smile.

We lay on the sand and offered our bodies to the sun. We splashed in the water, jumping the breakers and rolling in the surf. We waded out until the water was half way up our chests. The roar of the sea mingled with the shouts of those enjoying the waves. I looked deep into Carl's face and mouthed the words "Gay mates."

"Gay mates," he replied.

My hands pushed under the water to rest on on each of my friend's hips.

"Gay mates together, always."

A hand slipped its way underneath the elastic of my friend's swimming trunks to find and hold that splendid manhood that I had taken so many times before in recent days. 

"Tonight we are going to have sex like we've never had before."

"I can't wait."

I wanted to rip his swimming trunks off there and then, to have wild exciting sex in the water but the physicality of such activity under water were rather impossible. Instead I sent an erotic message through my hand to the extra special reception point between my friend's legs.

I believed that was well again, that I had been able to allay his fears. I was excited about Top of the Pops, of course I was, but no where as excited as I was thinking what we two would achieve together that very night.

Being on holiday time should not matter, the everyday fixtures of starting work, taking breaks, going home, dinner time, bed time and so on and so on can be set aside to relax. There had not been a whole lot of relaxation during our holiday so far and now it was going to be cut short to allow me to be at Top of the Pops in London on Thursday. But Tuesday was a relaxing day, we hadn't bothered with breakfast as we headed down to the beach where we ate thick Cornish ice cream from a vendor's kiosk.

"There's a chip shop in the next bay," Carl said. Before I could ask the question he gave me the answer. "The guy at the ice-cream shop told me."

Fish and chips has been a popular element within the British diet for decades upon decades. I am old enough to remember fish and chip shops wrapping their produce in newspaper so the customer could take the food away. In 1976 there were still a few establishments using newspapers but most had moved to the sterile off-white paper familiar to us all in the twenty-first century. This Cornish chip shop offered plastic shaped plates and small wooded forks so customers could take their food to eat at a series of picnic tables in a small field next to the shop. I am not a great lover of fish and after all when in Rome do as the Romans do or rather when in Cornwall do as the Cornish do - both Carl and I opted not for fish but for traditional Cornish pasty and chips.

When I scribbled the draft notes for this part of my story I decided not to wander off into an explanation of the Cornish pasty but hey I'll share just a little. The picture on the left (Top) is not a Cornish pasty even if most people think it is. A real Cornish pasty is larger, flatter and has a very thick folded crest about one side. Like that in the picture below. In days gone by Cornwall was famed for its tin mining, it is said you can look down a mine shaft of any kind anywhere in the world and always find a Cornishman down there. Miners wives would bake the pasty for their men folk to take and eat at work. The thick crust was for the man to hold his meal by, he would not eat that crust which would be contaminated by the poisons from the mine on the man's hands. Wives would also bake their husband's initials into the pastry so when the food was stored aside from the work area each man knew what was is own.

Any way, I must stop saying that, it was the traditional shaped Cornish pasty that carl and I had with our chips that day.

"Your idea for the Square Record Label," Carl said.

"Yes." God those chips were delicious, my mouth waters now as I think of them.

"You're thinking of a square label in the middle of the record."

I nodded, my mouth now full of pastry.

"Why not make the actual record itself square ?"

"The stylus can't go round corners."

"No, of course not. It doesn't have to. The actual playing surface will still have to be circular but set it inside a square. A seven inch square instead of a seven inch circle. It will fit on a turntable no problem, and I don't see why it can't work on an autochanger just like an ordinary record."

I thought for a moment, popped another piping hot chip in my mouth then considered Carl's idea.

"That is bloody brilliant !" I exclaimed as the significance of my friend's idea sank in. "Absolute genius."

Carl smiled. his cheeky grin stretching from ear to ear.

"Carl I love you," I spoke those words partly in praise of his idea, partly in recognition of his cleverness but mainly as a simple statement of fact.

"Nigel," Carl said softly in reply. "I love you too."

"People will but our records for the novelty value of the shape," I said. "God you are Clever Carl."

"You can talk the idea over with Jonathan King at Top of the Pops on Thursday," Carl suggested. "See what he thinks about it."

"No way, he'd nick it and use the idea himself".

Carl truly had come up with a great idea, we had fantastic prospects ahead of us - prospects both in business and for our future as lovers. Don't ask me why but the Beatles song When I'm Sixty-four started to play in my mind. CLICK HERE if you would like to listen to the song. 

Sixty-four, for me that was forty years into the future and for Carl it was forty-five. Would we still be together then ? Of course we would ! No question....

"What shall we do tonight ?" Carl asked. "For our last night in Cornwall ?"

"We could go into Newquay," I suggested, "find a disco."

"Is that what you would like to do ?"

"I'm easy. What about you ?"

"I wouldn't dance at a disco," Carl said. "I never do. I'd dance with you but we'd probably be thrown out for being gay. You know what I'd really, really like ?"

"What ?"

"Find a quiet pub somewhere, have something to eat then make long, hot passionate love with you."

"You know I'd quite like that as well."

"I thought you would."

In a packed holiday area on a sweltering hot evening a quiet pub just does not exist, instead we found a hotel that was staging a BBQ and ox roast within its grounds, paid our entry money so enabling us to eat as much as we liked, sat down and enjoyed the feast.

"When we've made our fortune," I said, "which won't be far away, when we live in a big mansion we'll hold a party with an ox roast. Everyone who is anyone will be there."

"Sounds good," Carl agreed. "I've got an idea for another kind of party, a sex party."

"You naughty boy. We'll have a party just like that very soon."

I now knew Carl very well, I was becoming increasingly comfortable in his presence and believed we had only the best possible life ahead of us. In today's open and liberated society with gay marriage, civil partnerships and anti-discrimination legislation it would be so easy for us to openly declare our relationship but back then ? You must be joking. In 1976 a poof was a poof, a subject of scorn, ridicule and smutty jokes. My parents would have died had they known of our friendship and Carl's, even if they cared nothing at al for him, would have battered him to within an inch of his life. We decided to present ourselves to our families, friends and the world in general as simply flat mates who were at some time in the future hoping to go into business together. It was unlikely anyone would be suspicious or ask any questions.

My flat, it was a marionette really, had two bedrooms so that would help allay some suspicions. That evening we discussed our forthcoming domestic arrangements. We would indeed share a bedroom and we most certainly would sleep in the same bed, to do anything different was not an option, but we would need something a little larger and more comfortable than my existing single bed.

"I'm not much good at cooking," Carl explained, "So if you prepare the meals I'll do all the washing up."

"Sounds a good deal to me."

"You don't smoke Nigel, is my smoking going to be a problem for you ?"

I didn't smoke, never have and even though the numerous associated health problems were well understood even in 1976 it was not yet considered socially unacceptable as it is today.

"No, that's fine," I agreed. "Now I don't have a washing machine and always hand wash my own clothes so if we both do our own laundry..."

"Agreed."

There were a few other small I's to dot and T's to cross before we talked over the financial arrangements.

"If we put my wages each week into a pot, a box or a jar," I went on, "they pay all the bills from there and take some money each for our pockets, we can open a savings account at a building society where each week we can put your wages plus all the money we make from the disco's. You watch how quickly that adds up, we'll soon enough have the money we need to start the record business."

"I can't believe this is all really happening."

"Mates," I said.

"Gay mates," Carl replied.

The way tents were set out on the camp field gave generous space between each but we cautioned ourselves we needed to be careful about the noise level as our hot sex progressed through the night. I was determined this was going to be the best so far, I feel sure Carl made a similar vow.

I had entered into my affair with Carl as a naive and inexperienced young man, one whose entire sexual career I have already outlined in the early pages of this autobiography, I was the one who taught the world to spell Naive will a capital N. Although we had not talked about his history I realised that Carl's repertoire exceeded significantly my own. However, while my friend provided the initiative for our activities it was I who assumed control. In our proposed business venture we were to be equal partners yet if it is not an anachronism of some inverted cliché I was to be the senior partner. So it was with sex. I was what is now called the "top" but that last night in Cornwall our roles reversed.

We had mutually promised it would be a night of ultimate sex, we had playfully joked about it several times during the day. We had also decided that any noise from our activities be on the quiet side of silence. Inside the tent we used torches to find our way about and lace up the door after which Carl took the torch from my hand and turned it off. In the darkness his hands found my face, a palm on each cheek pulling me towards him.

"You are so sexy," Carl whispered.

I made to reply but was silenced by a gentle "Shhh..."

His hands traced down my face and onto my shoulders before removing my shirt then caressing the hair on my chest just the way Carl had done the night before the carnival. That was less than a week previously yet it was a lifetime now behind us. My spine tingled with the touch, how absolutely erotic. Carl did not press his hands upon me, he floated them over my body while still maintaining the gentlest of contact. I groaned outwardly softly inwardly at a volume to deafen an army.

I was in a world all of my own and was unaware that Carl had removed all of his own clothing, In the dark I could not see my friend but even so that familiar level of enjoyment brought about through mutual nudity returned. Perhaps I was hesitant about taking control or perhaps I was relaxed so much by the beauty of our being together but in the tiny gap of fortune Carl had filled the space by reversing our previous roles. I experienced a tiny microsecond of fear before deciding to relax and enjoy Carl making love to me.

If I had earlier wondered about Carl being more experienced that I confirmation was soon to come. My friend teased between my buttocks. I flinched as a single finger began to penetrate me.

"Relax," Carl whispered. "Relax and enjoy."

In all those earlier years of fantasy, fantasy going back to my earliest puberty then stretching out through the experienced I have here shared with you, I have never once thought about another guy actually penetrating me. It was always my manhood that slipped inside him, god I wasn't sure if I wanted it this way, I wasn't sure if I could take it.

"Relax," Carl assured me again. "This is going to be just great I promise you."

I trusted my friend and did all I could to resist the fear sweeping over me. Carl was soon moving that finger inside me, widening a space into which he would soon - ! Two fingers, two fingers were inside me and then there were three. Their presence was an electric pleasure, I was enjoying it. Yes, I really was enjoying it.

A new thought began to pass through my brain, I had previously wondered at what point I had lost my virginity and while I no longer set any claim to that state of innocence the moment Carl penetrated me, a moment that would soon be upon me, my virginity in every possible sense of the world would belong to history.

Penetration when it came hurt and I cried out in pain before biting back any sound to maintain the silence about our little area of the camp site. Carl may have used his fingers to make ready the way but when they were removed to be replaced by a thick, hot shaft of cock it truly did hurt. It was, however, a strange pain. There is the pain of physical agony, hurt like that inflicted by corporal punishment the like of which Carl had related the night before. There is the hurt that nags and gnaws at one like a toothache, this was not like that. There is also a genre of pain that brings the recipient pleasure. No that's not a contradiction in terms, not at all. I have no idea, I can not truly speculate but when a woman in childbirth screams out that pain is also surrounded in pleasure. The agony that tore through my body as Carl began to enter me was just that type of pain. I was physically biting my lip in order tp restrain myself from crying out loud. It would have been a cry that pierced the night air and carried for miles. Instead I whispered, "Oh Carl what are you doing to me ?"

He continued to press more inside me, god how much could I take ? How much was there he had left to give ? At last his groin touched against my buttocks, both the pain and the pleasure continued. I could sense tiny beads of perspiration piercing the surface of my skin: on my back, on my forehead and on my face. Between my legs a hard rod of iron was a direct response to what my friend was doing behind me. We both remained motionless as each savored the pleasure of the other. 

And then Carl began to move. Slowly at first, withdrawing then thrusting in again. Slowly once, twice, three times like an old fashioned steam hauled train majestically pulling away from a standstill. Four, five, six, seven - faster now as more power was applied. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve - it was an express locomotive released to roar at top speed through the night.

Yes the pain was still there as each hard, penetrating thrust beat into my virgin arse. But yes the ever increasing pain ignited bigger flames of delight. My balls were swelling as they fought to hold back a volcanic eruption. Somewhere inside me Carl was touching a part of my body that continually raised the pressure against the inevitable explosion.

When that explosion came we both overflowed with a burning plasma. Never, ever before had I loved anyone the way I now loved my Carl.

"You must be Nigel," he smiled, "I recognise you. I'm Jonathan."

"Yes, I recognise you too," I replied somewhat stupidly. "Oh I'm sorry I didn't mean to sound -"

He smiled and held up a hand to silence me before I could dig any deeper. I knew I was blushing.

"I'm just an ordinary guy you know, my legs end in a bum the same as yours do. In fact if anything at all you are the one who's special, guys like you up and down the country playing my records is what puts the money in my bank account. So that's why I wanted you here, to meet and chat with you."

"Right."

Jonathan asked me about and appeared genuinely interested in my work as a mobile DJ. I told him all about the Yellow Peril Disco, the kind of gigs I played, my residency at the White hart pub and my ambition to play Cesars Palace.

"Cesars Palace Las Vegas or Cesars Palace Luton ?"

"Luton."

Again he smiled.

"Do you know it ?"

"Of course I know it, Cesars was voted Club of the Year last year but isn't it a bit MOR for you ?"

For those not familiar with the terminology MOR refers to a style of music - Middle Of the Road.

"The music i play tends to be a mixture of pop and MOR."

"And George Sava won't book you ?"

"No."

"I'll have a word on your behalf."

"Really ? Would you ? With George ?"

"No, no I'll speak to his boss."

"But I thought George was the boss."

"He's the manager of the club but Cesars is owned by Ladbrook Leisure, I know their operations director well. Trust me my young friend you will get to play Cesars Palace."

Jonathan King was as good as his word and I did get to play my disco at Cesars Palace. I was given a six month initial residency for Monday evenings playing music from when the club opened at eight until the cabaret started at ten thirty. Oh, so it was on a Monday the quietest night of the week but I was playing Cesars palace. Cesars features a lot in the later part of this story so I'll wait until then before telling you more about this unique nightclub.

It was very late when I got home from Top of the Pops, Carl was waiting for me. "You were absolutely brilliant," he said in greeting me.

He obviously hadn't watched the show on TV. If he had he would have known what a tiny, tiny part I had played.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, "but I've got something to show you."

In the place of my old single bed now stood a brand new divan.

"Where did this come from ?"

"Is it alright ? I mean do you mind ? I got it in a sale and paid for same day delivery."

There were brand new sheets, pillows and covers. It must have cost a fortune.

"Is it alright ?" Carl asked nervously.

"Only one way to find out, best try it."

Life Together:

We settled into a routine. Carl came home from work in the evenings after me, would take a bath to wash away the grime of his job, then sit down to eat the meal I had prepared. He also left before me in the morning so I took on the task of washing up from the night before. It wasn't what we had originally planned, it just happened that way. Our work clothing was very different, for me the smart salesman's suit and tie, for Carl the laborer's jeans and shirt. He would come home filthy, I did my bit to help by washing his clothes for him.

We took as many bookings as possible for the disco, by the time autumn came people were thinking of Christmas parties and our diary was at full stretch. With two residencies, one at the White Hart and one at Cersars palace we were well established on the local music scene. I added the Cesars residency to the publicity material and also included: As recently featured on Top of the Pops and Radio One Rodshow. But I'm jumping forward here a bit here, let's go back to those hot summer days.

I am old enough now to know that Utopia were it ever to exist would by virtue of being perfect and therefore no longer giving one something to hope for, to work towards, to wish for would in itself be a living hell. When Carl and I first started to live together it was not Utopia but for us both close enough to it.

There was no end in sight to the heatwave, the government was urging everyone to save water. Hosepipes to water the garden or wash cars had been banned for weeks, now public information broadcasts on TV asked householders to put bricks in the toilet cysten and save water with each flush. It was even suggested that two people could share a bath to save water. Carl and I were happy to do that in order to support Dennis Howell the New Minister for Drought.

At the leisure centre where my friend Steve worked numbers visiting the sauna fell to a small handful. Within that handful of patrons were the sauna's loyal supporters Steve and myself to which was now added a third, Carl.

"That Steve hasn't half got a cute bum," Carl said one evening when we were alone together.

It was true.

"And his cock's rather nice as well. You ever seen it stiff ?"

"No."

"I'd quite like to I think."

That Saturday afternoon the disco had been booked for a golden wedding party.

"We'll need a lot of Jim Reeves and Vera Lynn," Carl suggested.

"In my experience the grannies are usually the keenest boppers."

"Well don't get their blood pressure too high !"

One of the guests at this golden wedding party was Gary, someone Carl had been at school with.

"There's another example of a cute bum," Carl said.

"Where ?"

"Garry's - look !"

"Carl !"

"Remind me to show it to you a bit closer some time."

I did not like him saying that, it didn't rest easy with me. I was actually a bit jealous but was it any different to my willy watching in the showers when I had been at school or the suna visits with Steve ? The two lads, Carl and Gary, had been lads at school together so probably saw each other naked in the changing rooms, yes Gary did have a cute little arse but I didn't like the way Carl spoke of it. I tried to put it out of my mind.

The day I had gone to Top of the Pops Carl had got from the building society the form to enable us to open a joint business savings account. Exactly as we planned his wages and all the disco money was deposited there each week. OK so it was only three weeks but already the balance was starting to look good. The fee from the golden wedding party would be added and tomorrow would be our first residency night at Cesars Palace.

I was playing a party favorite from the 1960's Simon Says by the 1910 Fruitgum Company, Carl was dancing about making sure everyone was joining in with the actions. The party was going great, no denying that, but Carl didn't usually behave like this, he NEVER behaved like this. His place was always in the background, keeping the records tidy, today he was showing off to Gary and this irritated me. No reason why it should but it did.

"Play The Locomotion," Carl shouted to me, "I'll really get these old girls to wiggle their knickers !"

"I decide the playlist," I thought, "you just put the records away after."

I was about to say something like this to Carl when a series of short sharp thoughts flashed through my mind: STOP - SAY NOTHING - THIS IS GOOD - DON'T BE JEALOUS. Whoever put those words in my brain was right and they stopped me causing our first row. A row over what ? Carl making those at te party have a good time ? Carl passing comment about Gary's backside ? He did have a very nice arse after all.

I did play Little Eva's The Locomotion. "Keep them going Carl," I smiled.

"Excuse me."

It was Gary.

"My Gran says have you got Happiness by Ken Dodd ?"

"Of course, tell her I'll play it for her."

CLICK HERE to listen to Simon Says

CLICK HERE to listen to The Locomotion

CLICK HERE to listen to Happiness

Carl was right he did have a nice arse. I wondered what it would look like outside those tight trousers and underpants.

"You did a good job today," I said that evening as we lay in bed.

"I wondered if you would mind."

"No, why ?"

"Well you're in charge and I don't want to push myself."

"That's alright."

"I won't do it again."

"OK."

The following night at Cesar's palace Carl resumed his familiar role within the disco, he was absolutely behind the scenes and in the shadows. I was more comfortable with this than the extrovert from the day before. I realised just how little I knew about my frind.

I knew he was nineteen years old, he would be twenty in October. I knew he had not done well at school, always in trouble and was now a jobbing builder's labourer, a dead end job if there was one. I knew he and his parents did not get on but more than that was an enigma. Yet this was the guy I was now sharing my life with, a guy with whom I had a joint business bank account. I wanted to know more and contrived to find out.

"Have you had any contact with your parents since you moved out ?"

"No."

We were driving home after a first night of success as the Monday resident disco at Cesar's Palace.

"Don't you think you should at least give them your new address ? Suppose something were to happen ?"

Carl shrugged. "To them or to me ?"

"Either."

"Well they aint in my will and I doubt I'm in theirs."

"I don't even know where you lived before you moved in with me. What does your father do for a living ?"

"Other than being a full time professional bastard you mean ? Have a guess."

I had in my mind a stereotype picture of the man who was Carl's father. "Lorry driver."

"Nope. You are well cold with that guess."

"Assembly line production worker ?"

"Even colder."

"Brain surgeon !"

"That's not right but you're getting warmer."

I had thought of Carl's dad being an unskilled or at the most semi-skilled member of the working class. "I know, I've got it he's a hospital porter."

"You're getting cold again, actually he's a dentist."

There was a lot about this Carl I clearly did not know. His background looked to be very different to that I had built in my imagination.

"I think you should tell them where you are, at least give me their address just in case."

Carl sighed. "Seventeen Wentworth Way."

Wentworth way, everyone knew Wentworth way and its avenue of large houses. My father was a bank manager but he couldn't afford to live in Wentworth way.

"Bugger me."

"I will," Carl giggled, "just as soon as we get home."

If I had thought there was more to Carl then I knew I now understood there to be a lot, lot more. It was difficult to stop myself speculating about the boy, why was he the way he was and why was he estranged from his parents ? I thought about going round to their house, knocking on the door. But what could I say ? Hello, I'm Nigel, I'm the one who's fucking your son.

I wanted to find out more about Carl, I would stay alert and observe all I could.

"I'm not the first am I ?" I said one evening. "The first person you've had sex with ?"

"No," Carl confessed. He winked an eye before adding, "Just the best."

I wanted so much to ask him to tell me about some of the others and sought to find the words to satisfy my curiosity but before I could assemble them into a sentence Carl spoke.

Carl's Sex Party:

"Don't you think we should have the party soon ?"

"What party ?"

"The sex party !"

This was not the first time I had hear Carl use these words - Sex Party - but exactly what was he planning ?

"Let's see who we can invite," he smiled. "You and me of course, your mate Steve would be good and I think Gary should be there, I do want you to see is arse. And there's a black guy I work with, Cortney, it'd be good to get him along."

"What's going to happen ?"

"We're going to have an orgy !"

"Are Gary and Courtney gay ? I don't think Steve is."

"But he likes cock, you know that you've seen the way he is at the sauna. It don't matter if anyone's gay or not a cock is a cock is a cock."

"I don't understand."

"You will. We';; invite them all round for an evening playing cards and I'll transform it into a sex party. Leave everything to me. Trust me you'll have some fun."

Carl was in a mood of high excitement. I had seen him like that before but I had also seen him in dark moods of self criticism and gloom. I thought back to how sad it was when I had found him crying in the night when we were in Cornwall yet at the golden wedding disco it was as if he was running on an overdoes of adrenalin. Or something else perhaps !

"Have we got a disco booking for Sunday evening ?"

"No."

"Then let's go for Sunday, a sex party on Sunday !"

"What's going to happen ?" I asked again.

"We're all going to have sex silly !"

There was so much more I needed to know about Carl, why was the son of a wealthy dentist working on a building site ? Why had he been such a failure at school ? he was no fool, anyone could see that, so why had education been such a disaster for him ? I had always automatically thought of Carl to be an only child, he had never spoken of brothers or sisters, but did he have siblings ? Curiosity gripped me. I devised several elaborate plans to help me find out more but none of them could ever have works. And what about this sex party ? Surely -

"I don't know how to play poker," I confessed.

"Nor me," Steve added. Bloody hell something Steve did not know anything about, that was rare.

"Twenty-one's then, " Carl said shuffling a pack of cards. "everyone knows how to play twenty-one's."

There were nods of agreement.

"Minimum stake ten pence, maximum a pound."

Once again Carl was assuming control of the situation, when he did this he was different I did prefer it when he was in submissive mode, when I was in charge. I wasn't sure what my friend was up to but guessed it would end in hot fun. How would Carl turn a game of cards into an orgy ? Strip poker ? Possibly. A bit corny but probably. Carl did have a way to make people do what he wanted, remember that radio producer at the Roadshow in Newquay. If we ended up now having some fun it would be good.

A naked Steve was familiar to me already, you bet he was, and Carl I knew every inch of his body as if it were my own. But what about Gary and Courtney ? Underneath his trousers Gay must have the tightest and cutest bum, what about Courtney ? Was it true what they say about black guys ? Did they really have enormous dicks ? Was I about to find out ?

"What you doing Nigel ?" The dealer - Carl - said.

I looked at my cards, an ace and a three. "Buy one for twenty pence."

Carl handed me a single card face down.

A two, looking good.

"But another one for another twenty pence."

An eight. Bugger ! Eight = two + three + ace = fourteen.

"Twist."

This time the card was given face up. A nine. Sod !

"Bust !" I tossed my useless hand of cards to the middle of the table.

carl as banker and dealer beat not only myself but also Steve and Gary paying out just a small fifteen pence to Cortney's winning hand.

"I'll get us some more drinks," I said.

"No, no," Carl protested, "I'll sort it." Our eyes briefly met and something passed between us. Precisely what it was I can not accurately explain. Telepathy of some kind.

In the kitchen Carl was taking some cans of lager out of the fridge. He ripped the ring pulls off all five then set two cans to one side before taking a small sip out of the other three. He then produced a small white envelope from his pocket, tore open the corner and gently tapped some of the contents into each can.

"What are you doing ?"

"Just a little something to help kick start the party."

"What ? Drugs ?"

With the powder in each of the three cans he placed a thumb over the opening of each in turn then swirled it about to mix the contents.

"What re you doing ? This isn't right."

"Relax," Carl assured, it's just a harmless little something to move things along. Trust me."

I wanted to trust him but this wasn't right.

"A couple more rounds of cards," Carl grinned, "then it'll be time to drink a toast to Willy the Wanker and I've a little bottle of Scotch for us to do that with."

Carl had drugged those cans of beer, today I would know what he was doing using a date-rape drug but in 1976 few had ever heard of such things. Drugs, of course, were widespread and had been for more than a decade but in my little world of naivety they did not figure. I didn't smoke, had never used drugs and would not have a clue where to get any from. Looking back I must have been to many a disco with my eyes closed but if you don't know what you are looking for you just don't see it do you ? Not so for Carl.

We played cards for another half an hour, perhaps a little less, during which time a detectable change came over Steve, Courtney and Gary. Carl smiled, produced a bottle of whisky and said, "Gentlemen it is time to drink the health of Willy the Wanker. Do you know how to play the game ?"

Nobody did, Carl explained the rules. "Everyone is allowed to wear only three items of clothing: pants, trousers and shirt. No shoes or socks or anything else so take them off.

No objections were raised, each person stripped to the three items Carl had ordered then lounged on the floor round the coffee table. Carl began to explain the next part of the game.

"We take this in turn," he said. "I'll start. I tap the table once with my left hand then once with my right hand. I raise the bottle and say Here's a toast to Willy the Wanker for the first time. I take a swig the put the bottle down. I tap the table again once with my left hand and then once with my right hand before saying Here's to you Willy. The next person does the same save it's here's a toast to Willy the Wanker for the second time and he does everything twice. Then three times and so on. Got it ?"

Everyone claimed they understood.

"Then when anyone makes a mistake they have to take off an item of clothing. You've each got three lives."

This was silly but that white powder in the drinks caused Steve, Gary and Courtney to take it all very seriously.

"Let me check this out," Steve said then went through the routine Carl had just explained.

"That's it. Everyone ready to start ?"

There were words of excited agreement. Carl tapped the table, drank the toast, tapped the table again. "Here's to you Willy," he said before passing the bottle to me.

I concentrated hard. Tap twice with the left, tap twice with the right. Raise the bottle. "Here's a toast to Willy the Wanker for the second time." Take a sip. Tap twice with the left hand, tap twice with the right hand. "Here's to you Willy." I pushed the bottle to Gary on my left.

"Wrong !" Carl called. "Off with your shirt !"

"Why ? I haven't done anything wrong !"

"Yes you have, you only said Here's to Willy once, you should have said it twice."

"That's not fair, you never explained that bit."

"Off with your shirt' let's see that lovely hairy chest of yours."

"Nigel has a lovely hairy chest," Steve said slurring his words as if he was drunk.

(I know this picture has appeared earlier in the story but that's my hairy chest again. A recent picture, I was a lot thinner in 1976 !)

I felt cheated but bugger it who cares.

Gary made a right mess of things so off came his shirt. Courtney also confused the order of events and proceeded to the forfeit by taking off his trousers.

"You're supposed to start with your shirt," Carl said.

"Bugger it." To which he also took of his shirt and made no attempt to put back his trousers sitting just in a pair of underpants. It looked to me as if speculation about a black guy's manhood was right as a thich line bulged across the front of his pants.

Chaos began to take over, chaos yet within it all Carl remained firmly in control. He winked an eye and smiled at me.

After all the years between then and now I just can not remember the precise order of events but suffice to say we one and all ended up one hundred percent bollock naked. I was sober, not having swallowed any of Carl's magic powder, unlike the other three who were quite out of their brains. Carl was completely in control of everything they did.

We struck up a series of poses, presenting ourselves as kind of porn. Then Carl produced a camera.

Amateur self pics of guys in the nude have proliferated the Internet for some time and simply exploded with the advance and wide ownership of digital cameras, not to mention mobile phones with built in cameras. To have suggested such technology in 1976 would have been beyond the wildest science fiction. One could pose in front of a camera containing a roll of 35mm film but who would develop it ? The keen amateur photographer may have been able to process and print a black and white film but colour was a complex chemical procedure not possible in a home dark room. But there was the Poleroid Camera, pictured left. This was an expensive and not very effective way to take instant colour pictures. The film had inbuilt chemicals which processed the picture. Results were not brilliant but it did work. If you want to know a bit more click the camera picture.

Where ever had Carl got an expensive Poleroid Camera from ? Something else to add to my friend's enigma.

To flashed of the camera the five of us danced about my living room waving our cock, balls and arse to the lens. Only two pictures remains today from all those we took, one is of Steve who has kept it over the years and kindly loaned it to me to copy and include in this autobiography. There it is on the right.

Right to move on.....

I have always found a unique and special beauty in an arse, we English call them bums but that word has a different meaning from my American readers. Nature presents such a perfect order of symmetry, shaping and a flawless place where legs can join the torso. Compare this with the way arms meet shoulders and there is no contest.

In earlier pages of this autobiography I have given time to describe the delights of the arses belonging to both Carl and Steve. Both were items that brought me pleasure. In Steve's case the pleasure was purely visual while for Carl the visual was enhanced by the physical. And now there was Gary. Gary, if ever nature perfected perfection it did so in the shape of Gar's behind. A slim waist above two tight cheeks; rounded, smooth and firm. Sadly I do not have a picture of that delectable backside but I have assembled for your pleasure a small gallery of some other arses I have known. Take a look and enjoy....... Courtney also had a look of beauty. His skin was deep brown, not black. He was of West Indian extraction but somewhere in his history there was something of a white slave owner mixing into the genes of his African ancestry. His hair was hinting towards the style of a bushy afro yet shorter. not like those of the Jackson Five. His body and muscle tone showed the physical nature of his daily employment to give his naked form a rich, chocolate desirability. his cock was a fine specimen but not the snake I had secretly hoped for. Yes that's Courtney, nice isn't he ? The second surviving poleroid picture from the party. Everyone had a stiff boner, my own was as hard as it had ever been. Evidently the elixir Carl had dosed the three with did not interfere with their libido. Although my earlier activities in nudity had widely exploited seeing and being seen only Carl had seen my manhood firm and at attention. I wanted to wank, I was bursting for a wank. Surely we would progress to this. Everything comes to he who waits but some things in life are destined to be an anti-climax. The four of us jerked our manhood with our right hands, left poised to catch the resulting jizz after which it was soon over. We washed, dressed, drank coffee and the sex party was over.

Gary, Steve and Courtney were strangely quiet as the effects of what ever drug Carl had spiked their drinks with wore off and then they all went home.

"Fun ?" Carl asked after they had left

"Yeah." I don't think I sounded convincing but...

"Don't worry, they won't remember much, they'll none of them be sure what actually happened and what they dreamed. He does have a nice arse though doesn't he ? Gary I mean."

Seeing how I have been talking about cock and self pics - here are just a few of me. Taken far more recently than the sex party

The end of the heatwave:

The next day exploded with the most violent thunder storm I can remember and the long, hot summer drought came to an end. Rain fell as if a million terrestrial hosepipes were playing down on us and much of the summer magic was soon washed away.

I think before I move on with the next stage in this chronology of my twink years I should slightly stand aside to give you something of a self-assessment of my own character. I was born arrogant, of that I am certain, and in my youth it was a trait of which I was proud. I equated it with knowing what I wanted and a determined ambition for success. Later in life I came to know that it made me not the nicest of people and I struggled to moderate this superciliousness. Writing this autobiography and projecting myself back into my times as a twink the story has inevitably been told with a more mellow view than that I took at the time events unfolded.

Sure as a twink I was a hot little fucker with looks and a body I would now die for but I don't think I like the inner person I was back then. Little things, irrational happenings would make me angry and verbally aggressive. When one of these situations flared I was quick to start an argument and refuse tto listen to any point of view other than my own. There were only two ways to do anything: my way and the wrong way. But this was a character trait that was going to ensure success in business, success for the Square Record Label.

We had worked hard, Carl and I, at our respective day jobs then with four, five or sometimes six disco bookings a week the balance in the building society grew and grew and grew. It would be a good thing when we could actually start the business, a rest from the current demanding routine would be welcome.

The flat became untidy and then dirty. Washing up done as the next meal was cooking, it was the only way any clean plates were available to eat from. If only Carl were to do his fair share about the place but I prepared food ahead of his coming home, we always ate very quickly then were off to a disco gig.

I should have said something to Carl as soon as the situation began to develop, something calm and quiet saying how I felt about the state we were living in and my washing his clothes each week. To begin with running my hands through his underwear in the soapy water of the sink was fun but this had lost its appeal. Yes I should have said something but I kept silent, internally suppressing all my frustration and anger.

After the sex party Carl had returned to his submissive character and never again did he seize control at a disco in the way he had at the golden wedding party.

"I'm happy to be your right hand man," he said one evening. "You be in charge, it's the best way."

The greater part of Car's life continued ad an enigma, I should have asked him but I didn't. Asked him what ? Asked him everything.

After the sex party I did not see Gary or Courtney again but I did, of course, see Steve on a regular basis. He came up with another chance for me to run a disco at the leisure centre, we met up during my lunch hour from work to talk over details. He made no mention on that occasion of the events in the sex party. It was as if it had never happened, at least it had been wiped from his memory.

I raised my glass. "Cheers Steve," I said, "I'm grateful for the introduction. I promise we'll give the leisure centre another good disco."

"I'm sure you will. Cheers. Nigel, there's something I really do want to say to you."

"What's that ?"

"Please don't bite my head off but it's Carl."

"What about him ?"

"Do you trust him ?"

"Of course I do."

"Well just be careful that's all."

"What do you mean ?" I demanded, that unfortunate character trait I have just explained was taking over.

"Look I know you two are close, I can see that and believe me I don't have a problem with it but you are a mate and I don't want to see you get into trouble."

"Trouble ? What are you bullshitting about Steve ?"

"Just be careful, you know his brother is in and out of trouble all the time and to be totally honest with you I don't think you can trust him."

"Fuck off Steve !"

God he had made me angry ! For the rest of the afternoon I could not get Steve's words out of my mind, in particular on very short phrase: You know his brother's in and out of trouble all the time. Brother ? What brother ? Carl had never mentioned a brother, why not ? What was the trouble Steve had talked of ? Was the brother older or younger than Carl ? What was the trouble he was always in ? Trouble ? Trouble ? Trouble ? How much more was there about Carl I did not know ? Steve was a bullshitter, I knew that well but he was also a friend and someone who would not want to see harm come my way.

There was a lot I should talk to Carl about, frustration was building within me about him not doing his share about the flat, I would have to talk to him about that and quickly before it made me burst out in anger. I would also like to talk to him about this brother he supposedly had, why had he not told me about him ? And how come Steve knew about him ?

As I have written this autobiography I have taken great pains to relate to you events exactly the way I remember them, I have not enhanced, embroidered or embellished the facts you can be sure of that - what you read actually happened the way I have written it. I have, however, had to paraphrase some of the conversations, after so many years it is impossible to remember the exact words everyone used. I'm not misrepresenting anyone or anything in doing this, the content and mood of all conversations included have been carefully preserved. But the next conversation I am about to relate is word for word accurate. I remember exactly what was said, the words used and even the tone of voie as each one of us spoke.

"Carl have you got a brother ?"

"Yeah, I've actually got two."

"Two ?"

"Yep, twins."

"You've never mentioned them, are they older or younger than you ?"

"Older, two years older."

"Why haven't you said anything about them before ?"

"Nothing to say. They both live in London: Matthew works on the Underground and Malcolm's a hairdresser. I haven't seen them for ages."

"Any sisters ?"

"No, I don't believe in sisters."

That was a weird thing to say.

I still needed to talk with Carl about his taking a bigger share about the house but decided to bide my time and wait for another occasion. I found myself wondering which of the two brothers, Matthew or Malcolm, Steve had been talking about. Steve the bullshitter who knew everything may have known that Carl had a brother but he didn't know there were two of them - twins !

"Nigel, it'll be my birthday soon."

October, I knew. "Yes, you'll soon be as old as I am."

"Could we do something together for it ?"

"Not another of your sex parties !"

"No, I wondered if we might to to a gay bar."

"A gay bar ? What's a gay bar ?"

Believe me or do not believe me, I and just about everyone else in the country had never heard of a gay bar. In a society where every large town today has a gay pub, where even straight pubs have gay nights, with gay clubs, saunas, hotels, gyms and so on and so forth can you imagine that ? But Carl knew everything.

"It's recently opened," he explained. He knew the name and gave it, I am afraid I can no longer remember it.

"Where ?"

"In Amsterdam."

"Amsterdam ?"

Carl had all the information, relating every fine detail to me. "I know we have to save money for the Square Record Label but all we ever do is go to work and run disco's. It would be good."

"But Amsterdam, I don't even have a passport."

Oh yes, do not mock the airplane had been invented way back in 1976 even if I had never been on one. And yes some people did go abroad for their holidays but the budget airlines bringing cheap, quick and easy travel all over Europe were still two decades into the future.

"Amsterdam, how ever would we get there ?"

"There's a Dutch airline called Netherair which flies from Luton to Amsterdam. We can get passports from the Post Office." Carl had it all worked out.

"But how much will it cost ?"

Carl had that worked out as well.

Today a British passport will cost more than £70 but there was what used to be called a British Visitors Passport, a simple version of a passport obtainable from the Post Office but valid for just a few countries in Europe, Holland being one of them.

"If we get passports, buy our tickets then stay in a youth hostel," Carl said, "it won't cost that much. If we didn't pay my wages and disco money into the account for a week we could afford it."

It would be good, our relationship was not the way it had been just a few weeks earlier. We were indeed working too hard and a break would be welcome for us both. Just talking about these plans, even at such an early stage, made my spirits rise.

"We'll look at the diary, if we've got disco bookings I'll get Steve to cover for us. I'm still owed a couple of days holiday from work. What about you ? Can you get time off ?"

"Is the Pope a Catholic ?"

I laughed.

I felt so much better. Perhaps after all this would be a good time to raise the subject of Carl's share of work about the house.

"Carl there's something else I think we should talk about."

"Yeah."

"The flat, do you think you could do a bit more to help keep things tidy ? Clean up a bit more ?"

"I've been a slob haven't I ?" Carl confessed "It's just that I am not -"

Had we started this conversation at a different time i think I would have pushed for an argument but now I kept cool. "We are working too hard," I said, "it'll be OK once we give up our jobs and start the record company."

"Will we have to give up the disco as well ?"

I hadn't thought about that. "I'm not sure, perhaps."

"Wouldn't it be a bit like burning our boats ?"

"Cesar crossed the Rubicon....." I began

"And burned his boats," Carl finished the quotation. More of the enigma, I would not have though this genre of literature to be in Carl's library.

Anyway..

The record company, no matter how successful it became, would not likely be able to pay either of us a wage in the early days and we did have to live so probably the Yellow Peril Disco would stay around for a little longer.

When the idea for the record company had been conceived it felt like a brilliant initiative but I was losing some of the confidence and wondered if we could indeed make it a success. Music styles were starting to change and I wasn't sure I liked what I could see on the horizon. Although we were saving every spare penny I wasn't confident we would have enough money to properly launch the company. Perhaps after all we should go to Richard Branson at Virgin or Jonathan King at UK Records and see if we could set up a deal with them. No ! Square Label Records belonged to Carl and to me - nobody else.

"I'm sorry about the house," Carl started to apologise. "Tomorrow when we get back from work you relax and I'll clean it from top to bottom, a big spring clean."

"It's autumn," I smiled.

Perhaps if I had agreed to Carl cleaning the flat, perhaps if the rota at work had been different then everything else would have been different. Who knows ? Perhaps. But destiny had started playing games. "It's my day off tomorrow, I'll give the place a real blitz then if we both do all we can to keep it tidy."

"OK," Carl winked, "and from now on I'll was my own underpants."

As our lives had fallen into a routine so to had sex. Sex was regular, no matter how hard we both worked there was always energy left and some of the times were still good but more were just sex. None were ever as sparklingly exciting as some of the events i have told in the earlier pages of this story. Sex was sex, I guess that's all.

We didn't have a disco booking that evening, nor one for the following day. We sat watching television together then made our way to bed. Neither of us ever wore anything in bed, our naked bodies sharing the space between the sheets. As we lay there side by side Carl spoke softly.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for everything you have done for me."

"Mates," I replied. "Gay mates."

Yes we did have sex that night, it was simple but beautiful sex. We just wanked one another off but it was one of the more special times we had together. 

I have a tight foreskin, given the time when I was born it amazes me that I was not circumcised. Even with the hardest erection my foreskin does not stretch back over the head of my cock. A very early childhood memory I have is of my being taken to a clinic on a regular basis, I doubt I was any older than four at the time, where a nurse manipulated the end of my cock in an attempt to stretch my foreskin. She failed.

Before I met Carl I had no idea all foreskins were not like my own, I had seen a lot of cocks but only my own in an erection. Carl was fascinated by my foreskin and loved to play with it. With my cock erect he would place a finger over the head the stretch the foreskin up onto his finger tip. He would also feel with finger and thumb for the point where the head met the shaft below the skin then gently massage that point to eventually bring forth a heavy ejaculation. (On the left is a recent pic showing my tight foreskin.)

With the liberation of the Internet I have found many other guys from all over the world who like me have tight foreskins but that summer of 1976 I went from thinking my cock and foreskin were perfectly normal to regarding my situation as unique.

That night we simply lay side by side reaching across to hold one another's cock in a tight fist. That in itself was wonderful then as we jerked up and down the ultimate pleasure was quickly induced. That simple wank that night is one of my special memories.

The last day:

Carl left for work the next morning and s planned I started the major clean and tidy up of the flat. Things were going to be all right, what did it matter if there were aspects of Carl I knew nothing about ? I certainly was not going to take any bullshit from Steve. I began the epic tidy up in the bedroom. Under the bed on Carl's side was a large sports bag, I knew it was there he had brought loads of his belongings in it when he moved in. Pulling the bag out from under the bed so I could clean there it was obvious it wasn't empty. It wasn't full and not heavy but what was strange was the way the zip fastener on the top was held to a loop by a padlock. Many bags and suitcases have small padlocks but this wasn't something cheap that could be spring with a bent paper clip, it was much more secure than that. This was another strange enigma surrounding Carl, I could not stop myself speculating what was inside and why he kept it locked. But surely if it were so secret Carl would not have just pushed it under the bed, a better hiding place would have been found. Besides what ever did he need to hide from me ? I tried to put it out of my mind.

The clean up was going well but I needed some more things to shift the grime in the bathroom and toilet. I walked to a small branch of the Co-op at the end of the road to buy some more cleaning stuff. While I was there I invested in one of those block things to put in the toilet cistern and put disinfecting bleach into the water. By the time Carl got home I would have the place looking like a palace. Once the Square Label Record Company was a success we would employ someone to keep the house clean for us.

I lifted the top off the toilet cistern to drop the blue square toilet block into the water. There was something floating in there. It was a black film canister, the type to hold a roll of 35mm film. What was that ? I picked it up and instinctively shook it. It did not feel like a roll of film inside but it wasn't empty, something rattled. This must have been I the toilet cistern from before I moved into the flat. Very strange. I flipped the lid off the canister, inside was a small silver key. I knew immediately the lock it fitted.

My hear sank. My hand was shaking and stomach knotting as I took the key into the bedroom then pulled Carl's sports bag out again from under the bed. I didn't hesitate, the key fitted, turned and the lock sprang open.. I wanted to be sick, I was trembling with fear. What would I find ? I had no idea what I would find. Did I know Carl at all ?

The bag contained several items, I began by pulling out a blue plastic folder with the familiar Barclays Bank griffin logo on the front. It was a file of bank statements, statements for a deposit account in Carl's name. The latest statement was only a week old, I had never seen mail come for Carl that could have been a bank statement. But then it wouldn't, the address on each sheet was his parent's home in Wentworth Way. The statements went back a long way, I quickly flicked through them. Carl must have been collecting those covering the period he and I had been living together, going to his parent's house to pick them up.

How much was in the account ? I looked for the latest balance. Fuck ! The account had three times that I had calculated we would need to start the record company. Why was I working my arse off when Carl had money like this ? But where did the money come from ? I moved quickly from page to page checking out the many entries. There was a regular monthly standing order from his parents, a sum nearing as much as I was earning at the mens fashion shop. There were also cash credits, loads of them - two or three a week. Some were made at the local branch of Barclays while others were at a London branch in Holloway Road, Islington. The sums were large. Where was all this money coming from ? Why hadn't Carl told me about it ? Why did he keep the statements locked in a bag under the bed then hide the key in the toilet cistern ? With money like that we could start the Square Label Record company straight away.

That at least was the thought in my mind, I needed to find a way to get Carl to tell me about the money then we could start. When I had first come up with idea for the record company Carl had said we could have everything he had. So why hadn't he said anything about this ? Because he had no intention of including it in our business that's why ! Where had the money come from ? Where was it still coming from ?

I reached back into the bag, this time pulling out a sheaf of papers fastened together with a bulldog clip. They were Carl's weekly pay slips, nothing special about that. I glanced at them, made to set them aside then SHIT ! Still holding them I ran to the kitchen where we kept the account book for the building society. SHIT ! The sum Carl was handing over each week to put in our joint account was smaller than the figures on the pay slips.

My world was at an end. Carl ws cheating me. Cheating me every week. There may be a perfectly acceptable reason for the secret bank account and for the large sum of money it contained but there could only be one reason for the difference between the pay slips and the building society book, Carl was cheating me.

Tears began to form in my eyes - it was over. Carl and I were over. Al we had done together: the sex, the fun, the ambition for the future, it al counted now for nothing. Everything was finished between us. Carl was cheating me. The tears and sadness evolved into anger, as I returned to the bedroom to see what else the sports bag held I was enraged with violent fury.

Inside the bag were two metal biscuit tins and a school exercise book. I opened the tins, one contained refer cigarettes - I'd never before seen one but I knew what they were. The second tin held hundreds of small bags filled with a white powder. I could guess what they were. I was now feeling scared.

The school exercise book was a meticulous record of Carl's secret life as a drug dealer. He was selling to people he worked with, he was supplying a network in London run by his brothers and he was supplying a contact every Monday at Cesar's palace when we were there for the disco residency. In the book he had recorded details of the money paid into the bank and also weekly visits to London when he delivered supplies of drugs to his brothers. Trips he was making to London by train when I thought he was at work.

I went to the living room, picked up the phone and made to dial 999 ! As the rotary dial on the phone slowly returned to its start position after the first nine I hesitated then put down the receiver. I can not tell you why I did that, perhaps I was frightened what would happen to Carl, what would happen to me. Perhaps I hoped against all hope that what we had together wasn't really over. I did not call the police.

I tore my brain open as I searched for a logical explanation, for lots of explanations logical or otherwise. Things were starting to add up but many questions remained unanswered. Amsterdam ? Carl wanted to go to Amsterdam ! Amsterdam was the centre of Europe's drug trade ! Why were his parents putting money into his bank account each month ? Were they part of the drugs ring ? Surely not. They were just wealthy parents giving their son a monthly allowance. But why had Carl made out they all hated each other ? Carl was using our residency at Cesar's Palace, something I had waned long before he and I met, to sell drugs. I would be finished if it was found out. But I never saw anything, god he must have been moving the drugs stashed in the record boxes ! And Carl was going to London one day a week, taking drugs for his brothers to sell when I thought he was at work. But he always came home with dirt of the building site on him. How did he do that ?

It would have been so easy for him to get hold of what ever it was he used to spike the drinks at the party. But where was he getting all this stuff from ? He was hiding so much from me. I had come to think of Carl as an enigma but he wasn't he was just one big lie ! Was there anything about him that ws not a lie ? How much of everything he had said to me since we met was a lie ? Was there any truth at all ?

I could have coped with the drugs, we ould have talked about that. I think I could have steered him out of it. There was more money in Barclays Bank than we needed to begin the record company, we could start immediately. But there was the money from his weekly wage that he was cheating on. I had simply believed him when he said how much he earned. Now I find that figure represented just four days work a week, not five and then he was keeping back a few pounds. This was a knife through my heart.

For the next two hours I poured over the bank statements and Carl's handwritten records in the old school exercise book. For part of the time I cried, for part I fumed with anger but anger and tears gave way to a coldness within me. I wanted Carl out of my life, out of my life for ever. In the remaining time until he came home I made my plan.

He was back on time and breezed into the house. "Hi there Nigel."

"Hello Carl. How was your day ?"

"Crap as usual," he laughed.

I was not laughing. "You did go to work then ? Not to London ?"

He paused and turned to face me. I reached behind a chair to produce the sports bag which I dropped on the floor between us.

"Not to London to see your brothers, the brothers you told me you never see ?"

He was white.

I put a hand in my pocket, pulled out the black film container with the key inside it. I dropped that to the floor.

"You bastard !"

Carl was even paler now but his lips pursed with anger.

"You've no fucking right, you -"

I cut him short. "I've every fucking right !"

Carl picked up the sports bag and film container. He moved to leave the room.

"It was all for us," he said.

I barred his way. "I don't fucking believe you !"

Then he hit me. A single blow that split my mouth. As I reached to the blow he made his escape and went to the bedroom. I did not follow him but stood outside the door. Inside Carl would be able to see how I had put all of his clothes into black bin sacks and piled them on the bed. carl was laving that night, leaving my flat and leaving my life.

It was then the anger exploded. I hurled all manner of abuse at him through the closed door. I screamed that he was to get out of my house, that I never wanted to see him again. "I gave you everything, fucking everything and yet each week you were stealing money by not putting all your wages into the building society. You thief ! You cheat ! You liar ! Fucking liar ! All the time I was cooking, cleaning and washing your clothes you were cheating me ! I want you out of this house tonight !"

The bedroom door opened. Carl was holding the sports bad. "Finished ?" he said.

I replied with just three words. "I hate you !"

In the silence that followed Carl walked past me and to the front door. He opened it, left and closed it quietly behind him. A few seconds later the letterbox rattled, his door key fell through and onto the floor.

I heaved a sigh of relief. I prayed he would not come back, ring the bell then feed me a new pile of lies. What about the bags of clothes ? He would have to come back for them. Quickly I gathered them into the hall then piled them outside on the doorstep. I locked the door.

Carl was gone. I never wanted to see him again. Eventually I went to bed and slept soundly. I'd get rid of that double bed and return to sleeping in my old single bed. When I awoke in the morning the black bin sacks outside the front door were gone. I never saw Carl again.

At first I was convinced he would come back but I'd be ready for him, there was no way I'd let him back into my life. I had never been quite so angry. The days went by and Carl did not come back. The days turned to weeks, to months and then to years. Now the years have turned to decades. What became of Carl ? I have never stopped wondering that. Surely his drug dealing activities would have got him into trouble with the law. Was he in prison ? I often wondered if he were live or not. Did I miss him ? I missed the sex. Did I love him ? I don't think so, it was more like infatuation. Did Carl love me ? Do you know I haven't a clue. Do I wish things had been different ? You bet I do. I wish I had never found that sports bag, I wish I had handled things different. If only it were possible to turn back the clock.

An older guy is only a twink with life experience. Bollocks ! Speaking now as an older guy I would give anything to be back as a twink with Carl. Oh Carl I do miss you.

I kept the Yellow Peril Disco going for several years after Carl. In my record collection there was, still is, a single The Carnival is Over by The Seekers. I had it as a kid, looking now at the label I see it was released in 1965. It may have made it to number one in its day but it is so corny. I was asked to play it at a retirement party, as I listened to the words I cried. I thought of that carnival when Carl and I first became an item then as the song went on I recalled so much of that hot summer in 1976. Now and then when I'm feeling low and sorry for myself I'll play it again and again and again. It always makes me cry. I'm playing it now as I type the concluding paragraphs of my autobiography. (You can listen to the song by clicking Carl's picture on the left.)

I had no idea what became of Carl, of course he's an older guy now as well. What became of me ? I didn't stay much longer at John Collier's mens store, in my time I've been a car salesman, a double glazing salesman and even for a brief spell a travel agent. The Square Label Record company never happened, I'm sure it would have been a failure anyway. I still have the joint building society account with all the money we put in there, it requires both of us to sign to make a withdrawal so it just sites there year after year gathering interest.

I told you near the start of this autobiography that my friend Steve had his own internet business. That's partly true, Steve and I are business partners in that venture, we've been working together for ten years now.

Steve gave marriage a try, twice in fact but on both occasions realised the benefits of a decree absolute. Me ? No I never got married, married to anyone of either gender. There's been a lot of sex over the years, some good and some not so good but even the very best was not as good as sex with Carl.

Carl, what ever became of Carl ? I missed him so much. After all we had been mates - gay mates. When he walked out that night, when I kicked him out, I never saw him again. Never saw him again, that is until the beginning of last month - May 2007 when I started to write this autobiography. In my mind Carl has not aged as I have, he is still a twink and always will be. An older guy is only a twink with life experience.

So now, after many thousands of words, it is time to bring this autobiography to an end. Perhaps one day I will have more to write but that story is still unfolding.

The End.