Gay Camberwell

In the absence of GC's usual blogger, who has abandoned me for the glories of Scotland and a poetry book launch, I feel it is incumbent on me to step in to the breach. This blog should have been full of the glories of the Red Gate's 10th birthday party which I intended to go to last night – and I know a number of Gay Camberwellians went to – but alas I found my self stuck in negotiations in Brussels and not back in London until a very late hour last night.

So, instead you'll have a blog about gangsters and boxing. And Camberwell's lovely bike shop.

Emerging this morning to find a blue sky, I thought this would be the perfect day to take some photographs of Camberwell for this site. Pottering around Camberwell, I saw the Castle was open and popped in, in hopes of talking to the lovely Winston about gaycamberwell.com.

However, I found Winston was already occupied: by a man in search of a lost tom-tom (which sounded exciting until it was established this was of the navigational variety). Despite this distinctly middle-class quest, the man was of a distinctly gangster-like appearance. Nevertheless, we got chatting. I established he was Russian, but staying in Camberwell whilst his girlfriend recovered from taking an overdose. When he told me her liver and kidneys had replaced themselves, I swiftly resolved to consume nothing in his presence for fear that the "replacement" of his lady's vital organs, entailed the
loss of such items from others. (Since he later told me that she's an in-patient at Kings, I suspect this medical miracle may be a combination of the advances of medicine and the allure of exaggeration.) Having informed me of the best strategy our beloved Home Secretary could adopt to deal with knife crime (send the "crims" to Russia, and they'll be dead within 15 hours), he enquired about my business with Winston. Despite a few reservations, I explained the glories of gaycamberwell.com. He was enthused. He has, he says, many gay male acquaintances who live in south London. This seemed remarkable. And yet, I suppose, one shouldn't assume that there aren't gay gangsters. Indeed, perhaps readers of this blog would describe themselves as such? If so, do comment, and let us know how you occupy your time. Providing it doesn't involve blood. Or pain. Or indeed nastiness.

A coffee with Winston restored my equilibrium. I left (with no gangsters in sight) with my mind reeling with at the prospect of regular cabaret and gay films, as well as our ideas for the launch party which – you heard it here first – is going to be held upstairs at the Castle on Wednesday 19 November.

Then I was off to House for a fresh mint tea before going women's boxing. I never thought I'd be the type to go to boxing (not having bulging muscles, nor being known for my ferocity), but I would imagine most of those who go would say the same. Then to the Cambria for lunch (and I can confirm that the staff there are probably the nicest in the area) and a read of this month's book club book, The Ballad of the Sad Café. En route home through Ruskin Park, with music coming from the bandstand, it was hard not to feel smug at the niceness of our area. A feeling that didn't leave me when I went to pick up my new bike from that loveliest of bike shops, Edwardes. Wooshing down Grove Lane – simply for the joy of going downhill fast - I felt glad not to live in north London. Or Russia.

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