The rain is falling so goddamn heavy outside it wakes from a semi sleep.

I watch and listen to it for a few minutes, then I turn over and wrap my arms around the sleeping form of the guy next to me.

I pull my naked form close to him, my chest is touching his back, my cock rests between against the crack of his ass.

I kiss the back of his neck gently, he stirs a little.

My hand rests on his hairy belly and I gently fall back into semi concious.

I wake for a second, disturbed by the sound of the rain. I turn over and wrap my arms around the pillow next to me.

I am of course alone, and I feel it very acutely.

I listen to the rain bounce of the window.

A car goes past and I hear the spray of the tyres.

Empty, I open the laptop and blog.

I'm laying in bed like I usually do at this time of night.

Tap,tap, tapping on my little laptop.

Directly in front of me at the base of the bed and leaning against the wall are three pictures I have yet to hang.

I've been here six months and I still haven't hung them.

So the Incredibly Lazy Ass Award goes to me.

Of the three pictures, one is a framed poster from a Gilbert and George exhibition entitled 'Diry Words Pictures' and it is signed by the artists.

Another is a kind of photographic collage that is a permanent work in progress.

A rogues gallery of family and friends.

The last picture is by far my favourite of favourites.

It's not really a picture, it's actually a framed Monopoly board.

That's right Binky, you heard me,a Monopoly Board.

This is no ordinary board.

It was the inspiration for one of the greated pub crawls ever.

On a cold November Saturday morning three years ago, the Beermonsters decided to celebrate my birthday in true style, we did the Monopoly board.

27 pubs in twelve hours.

We started at 11.00 am on the Old Kent Road and finished twelve hours later in Mayfair with a bottle of champers.

'cause we hadn't drank enough .....

We panicked at Fleet st because on the weekend the city is closed, but we managed to find a little pub called The Cheshire Cheese tucked away.

Each drink we had in each location is scribed onto the apropiate square, and signed by the person who served us.

Being the dedicated alcoholics that we were back then we kept to a tried and tested formula - one pub was a BOYC (Beverage Of Your Choice) and the next was a shot.

We literally drank ourselves sober.

And at the end of that day, we felt a perverted sense of achievement.

looking over the birthday wishes that fill the centre square, it's kinda sad that we have all gone our seperate ways, so to speak.

So it's more than just an object in a glass frame, it's a reminder of little happy period of my life in London.

And that, my dear Binky, makes it priceless.

Charles Laughton is a bit of a hero of mine.

Years ago I read a biography of him written by Simon Callow and I became fascinated by him and his life.

Since reading that book, I have begun to hunt his movies and other material.

Callow went into great details of the technalities of the performances he gave, and compared him to Gielgud and Olivier.

I can't comment on that, but I was enraptured by the details of his personal life.

He was of course gay,and was tortured as he could never reconcile them with his Catholic upbringing.

He actually thought an anal cyst was a punishment from god for his lifestyle.

He was married to Elsa Lanchester (another actor and an incredible liberal one; when she csaught Charlie on the couch with a 'dilly' boy, she accepted it.

But there relationship deteriated over the years.

Charles always took young beutiful men as lovers but these affairs were short lived.

The poor bugger never really found love with a man in his lifetime.

And that is a great shame.

I could relate to the awkwardness he felt, never quite fitting in. I saw a great deal of myself in how he was described.

The irascible nature tempered with a childlike wonder of the world around him.

If I had the means , I would go back and give him a hug.

I would tell him how different my gay world was to his.

I would tell him about the scene, the clubs and bars. About the Pride marches, about how two men can now be openly in love,and even marry.

And while it is not a perfect world, it's a far cry from what it was fifty years ago.

We forget that sometimes.

Somebody put a bomb under my ass.

I think I am in a rut.

I live within walking distance of one of he most vibrant gay area's, one of the countries best bear scenes and I seem to be happy just to stay at home to vegitate in front of the ol' gogglebox.

And whore myself on the internet, of course.

Goes without saying.

I don't have too many friends in Manchester outside of the hotel and I think this is the issue.

I hate standing in a crowded pub on my own, feeling out of place, observing everybody else as they seem to be enjoying themselves.

As bolshy as I think I am, I am actually quite shy.

And while I am looking forward to the Pre-Hibearnation I am kinda dreading it as well.

I don't want to be the guy on the outside lookinjg as everybody else seems to be having a good time, I want to be on the inside looking out as I boogey with the grizzley's.

In the morning, my back hurts.

Yesterday I had two pints in the afternoon and I was dozing off in the car as my brother and I drove back from leamington.

I prefer to stay at home than go out tarting it down Canal St.

And I have just found more than one grey hair in gotee.

Holy

Fuck

It's the onset of middle age.

Goodbye youth.

So long, childhood.

This is the end....

In the car as we pulled away from the crematorium, I was already composing the letter in my mind.

When I got to work this morning i wrote it.

Dear Pauline,

I have long held the opinion that the death of a family member should bring that family closer together, but clearly judging by the events of Tuesday Septemebr 20th, this is a misconception.

When I finished work I saved to one of my files, I'll think a little longer about sending it ,but I probably will.

I've never been able to walk away from a fight.

I haven't blogged much in the last week 'cause i just haven't felt like it.

Like I owe an apology.

I'll leave work a little early tomorrow to take the train home for the funeral on Tuesday.

I'm not sure how it's going to be.

We haven't had too many deaths so for us there is no ritual of mourning to be followed.

One thing I do know, one certainty if you like, is that we all loved Uncle Brian, in our own way.

And it is sad that he has gone.

While I'm at the funeral I'm going to try and get a picture of him. either from my mother or his wife.

Heck, he was a hero of mine.

And talking of hero's, I met another this week.

Terry Waite was staying in the hotel and I met him.

You don't know who he is? Binky! I'm ashamed of you!!

He was held captive in Beirute for five years with Brian Keenan and John Mccarthy.

Five years in the same room, handcuffed to a radiator.

Poor fucker.

He was released ten years ago and the man i met was the sweetest,most humble of men, very tall with a shaggy beard.

A big grizzly bear with the soul of a poet.

So in a space of a week I've said hello to one hero and goodbye to another.

I was going to migrate all my blog entries to another website I've been working on.

But after thinking about it, I don't really want to.

This little blogsite has given me a lot of pleasure and yes, it's a little clunky and a little lacklustre in the design department, but it's opened up a whole community to me, a community ruled by opinions and ideals, politics and personal experiences.

So I'm staying put.

Pitching my tent.

But if your interested -and I'm not presuming you are..- go have a look at the aborted project.

http://mancorso.moonfruit.com

Have you ever been chatting to a guy, a guy you met on, say, Eurowoof and your getting along great and I mean really great.

And then something, just something turns you right off?

We're not talking a major character flaw here, we're talking about something as superficial as his voice?

It's happened to me.

I'm talking to this guy for a couple of weeks and everything is fine, had a few cam2cam and that was great....and then we spoke on the phone and that kinda killed it for me.

His voice was very feminine and very camp, not at all what I had imagined.

And the world just went flaccid.

Jeez, how shallow am I ?

The last time I had sex was May.

I feel like a monk. Or if he's busy, a friar.

hahahahahahahaha.

ok, Binky, whatever.

I've had offers, but on some level I just haven't wanted it.

I find that a quick session with whoever is fine, but after I've cum I loose all interest and I want the guy to leave.

I know it's incredibly selfish but that's the truth.

It's also why I prefer the other guy to cum first, so he leaves satisfied.

Ultimately, casual sex is unfulfilling.

And I'm ready for something deeper.

It's like this.

I'm chatting to guy on EuroWoof.

He's attractive in mature way, his pic shows him in a vest and sunglasses and it's been taken somewhere sunny, he look's good.

On a wet afternnon with nothing on tv your not going to kick him out of bed.

Get my drift?

Looking at him you know, you just know, that your going to have a good time. There's something about him, he's oozing sexuality and sensuality from his picture.

So I'm chatting and it's going well, and I casually ask him the million dollar question.

I ask him what he's into.

He says he would love to shag me bareback.

As in no condom, Binky.

And straight away it's kinda killed it for me.

Believe me, I'm no prude, but I have limit's.

I wished him luck on his bearhunt.

At 9.50 this morning Brian Luby, my favourite Uncle , passed away.

When my phone rang with an external phone call, I knew.

Before answering it, I braced myself.

My mother was sobbing when she told me, she said he had fought all night and then this morning he let go.

This is the first death in my mothers family for nearly thirty years.

The last one was my grandfather, and coincidentally it was also at his funeral that I met Uncle Brian.

I was in awe of him, he was dresed in a smart suit,smoked a pipe and was little tubby, he looked like a businessman, which is what he was.

After the phone call I walked out of the hotel, his passing had an emotional effect on me and I would never let anybody see me as vulnerable as I felt.

I walked around the corner and stood for a few minutes amazed and scared that Brian was now lying lifeless in a hospital in Coventry, no longer breathing, his heart silent.

It just didn't seem right.

I called one of my brothers and told him.

I called another and told him.

Then my mother called me back and she told me something that made me pause for a moment.

She told me that her watch had stopped at 9.50.

Straight up.

No bullshit.

Make of it what you will,it doesn't make any difference to me.

After about thirty minutes or so I went back to work, but maybe a little quieter than usual.

The funeral will be next week and wild horses couldn't keep me away.

I'm going to say goodbye to my Uncle Brian.

There is a joke in the medical community, and it's one of those jokes that is tragic, not funny. I know this 'cause I used to date a Doctor and he told it to me.

How much morphine do you give a dying man?

As much as he damn wants.

See? Not funny.

My mother is spending the night as Uncle Brian is not expected to make it to morning. The Docs have pumped him full of morphine but he hasn't woken all day.

Fuck. Shit. Piss.

I missed two calls from my mother so I called home and my brother brought me up to date.

And since I heard this news I have been feeling very emotional, kind of on the verge of crying, but not.

It would be unforgivingly selfish for me too expect him to have cast me a casual thought over the last few days, in a lucid moment.

But I hope he has, I hope he has thought kindly on the little mixed up kid he looked after years ago, because the man he grew into loves him a lot.

And even though I don't really believe in an after life, I can't help hoping I get to tell him one day.

My mother called me today to say that cancer had been detected when the Doctors had examined Uncle Brian.

Cancer.

The Big C.

Shit.

My mother was clearly upset and understandably so, but I confess it made me feel a little uncomfortable, in a very british way.

As a rule my family does not get emotional, except for the base emotions such as anger, joy etc.

Our upper lips are stiff as a board.

Our spirits hail from Dunkirk.

But my mother is a good woman with a big heart,and that heart has got bigger with the passing years.

I hold no blame to her for walking out on her marriage and children, I get why she had to do it.

But I do maintain -and always will- that she could have done better than the man she married, a man who has hurt her over the years with various indiscretions.

After the last one, about three years ago, when all the dust had settled I called him.

I explained in a very calm voice that if he ever hurt her again, I would 'kick his fucking head in'.

I know Binky, So butch!

I think he was shocked that the boy he used to ridicule and berate had become a man.

We may not display our feelings for each other, but they run deep.

And she is especially close to her brother and my uncle.

And if I know her like I think I do, the prospect that he may die will be playing heavily on her mind.

Cancer sucks ass in a big way.

My Uncle Brian is in hospital.

I only have Uncles on my mother's side and well, he is my favourite.

He was a kind of surrogate father to me when I was growing up, as even though I was living with my mother and step father, the step father wasn't too interested.

But Uncle Brian was.

He used to have a restaurant in Stratford Upon Avon and we would all work there at the weekends with me washing up.

The restaurant was in his house, it had eleven bedrooms and dated back to medieval times.

Lodge Farm Restaurant to be exact.

Sunday afternoons were spent scrubbing dishes and then a big Sunday lunch and Battlestar Galactica on tv.

He paid me of course, every week I got £15 to blow on toys and comics on a Monday.Hence the comic addiction.

Well, Binky it was the early eighties!

And his wife, Aunty Wooly (don't ask!) would also give me extra pocket money, telling me not to tell anybody.

And I didn't.

They never had kids of their own so I guess they made up for it in their nephews and nieces.

He was a big influence on my life, I applied for and won a place at the Birmingham College of Food and Domestic Arts because I wanted to be a chef like him.

I graduated in the top four of my year and I still have an ambition to have my own hotel and/or restaurant.

I saw him for the first time in nearly twenty years two years ago when I helped organise a birthday party for my mothers sixtieth.

He looked like an old man and the image I was holding of him in my head was suddenly out of date and had to be over written. I needed to add wrinkles, glasses and a walking stick.

But it was good to see him.

My mother maintains that I am the spittinmg image of him and if that is the case, well I am proud.

And now he lies in hospital bed, with tubes poking out of him recovering from an operation.

My mother tells me that he cried today when one of my other uncles -his brother-drove from Wales to see him.

And I want to tell him how much I respect him, how much he has meant to me and that to a thirteen year old who was dealing with waring parents, mean step parents and the gay gene kicking in...

Well, he was a kind of hero.

So I'm reading Silent Bob Speaks by Kevin Smith, and up to this point I have been disapointed.

Now, I'm a Smith fan - in more ways than one. Not only do I like his movies ('cept Jersey Girl because that sucked more ass than a serial rimmer in darkroom) and well, he has to be one of the sexiest guys on the planet.

If you were to ever read his blog, he sometimes talks about how he bones his wife, and all I can think of is lucky bitch

So I've been reading this book which is collection of articles he's written over the past few years and I'm disapointed bacause he comes across as a one trick pony.

He's not saying anything new.

I really believe he could be the new Woody Allan but he needs to give the tit and fart jokes a rest and concentrate on writing really good dialogue centred around relationships.

He does that so well.

But all too often he plays it safe and goes for the cheap laugh.

Brother, you need to wise up.

Only once in the book has he nailed a common emotion with me.

Comics.

He talks about working in Jersey in 1988 and a fellow worker got him hooked on comics.

And comics are an addiction, he got that right.

I weened my self off them a few years ago, but I found a new dealer in the form of the Forbidden Planet in Oldham st and I go there to get my weekly fix.

And this worker got him hooked by handing him a single graphic novel and told him to go read. And he did.

The book in question was Frank Miller's Dark Knight Returns.

When I bought this book back in 85' it blew my fucking mind. Well, the bit that was left unravaged by raging hormones and wet dreams about big bears.

No Binky, not the animals.

And thats how Smith has nailed it for me. The only time in 330 pages.