Mar 20, 2026

Stranded on the Isle of Dogs, and Other Hassles, Horrors, and Hookups of My First Visit to England

**Link to the n*de dudes**

Sorry if you love London, or call it home. I'm not a big fan, in spite of the architectural marvels and fascinating history. I always get lost. It's cold. The streets are all dirty. Everyone is rude all the time; I've never seen anyone in London ever smile. And the food's not great.

In 1993, my partner Lane was a delegate to the World Congress of GLBT Jews, to be held in London! He invited me along as his guest.

This isn't him. I have lots of pictures, but no n*des. But he was (and still is) a husky, hairy bear with nice arms, like this guy.

I had been to France, Spain, Germany, and the Netherlands, and Lane spent a year in Israel, but for some reason neither of us had ever been to Britain before. So we planned lots of sightseeing: The Tower of London, the Sherlock Holmes Museum, Stonehenge, The Rude Man of Cerne Abbas, Canterbury Cathedral. Not to mention the Gay Village of Soho.

Customs

The problems started the moment I arrived. At customs I was questioned extensively about my reasons for coming to Britain, who I was staying with, did I know anyone here, and again, why did I come here??? He wouldn't believe that I was a tourist. No one ever came to Britain as a tourist. It was a tiny, backwater country with absolutely no sites of historical or artistic interest! I must be planning something criminal.

I still wonder why he was so suspicious. Do I have the same name as a terrorist? Was it my leather jacket?

The Isle of Dogs

If you were planning a World Congress with delegates from all over the world, most of whom have never been to Britain before, wouldn't you pick a hotel that was centrally located?

Nope: The Royal Britannia Hotel was on the Isle of Dogs, an industrial sleugh on the East End of London, surrounded by the Thames on three sides. No pubs, no shops, nothing but block after block of dark industrial buildings.

And no subway. You could catch a bus into town -- about six miles to the Tower of London -- but it stopped at different places, depending on the whim of the driver, anywhere between six and twelve blocks from the hotel.

So you were standing at a bus stop, and it would drive past you and stop two blocks away.

On Thursday and Friday, while Lane was busy with meetings, I chased after a bus getting into town, visited the Tower, the British Museum, the Sherlock Holmes Museum -- and Clapham Common, because I took the wrong metro and ended up in the far south.

Saturday was Shabbat, so no meetings were scheduled. Lane and I returned to London to visit Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, a science fiction bookstore, and a gay sauna (for a gay conference, there was very little hooking up).

We missed the last bus, so we had to take a taxi back to the hotel.

On Sunday the buses didn't run, so another taxi into London, where we found almost everything closed, and a taxi back (straining our resources).

The Gay Jewish Conference

I didn't realize that by signing on as a guest, not a delegate, I was forbidden to go to any of the meetings, or any of the dinners.

On Thursday night, there was an evening boat tour of the Thames, with box dinner provided. Except for guests. I stole one to avoid starving to death.

On Saturday night, they held a dance for conference delegates -- no one else, not even the partners. I spent the night watching television -- the "Crazy Americans" hour, with four episodes of a tv sitcom that I never heard of (and don't recall the title of; it takes place in an office, but in one episode they're on a life boat for some reason).

On Sunday night they had a dinner -- for delegates only. I'd have to make do with the hotel restaurant. Whoops, it was closed on Sundays. I would have starved to death again, but someone with a car drove into town and brought me (and the other guests) some fish and chips.

Is this any way to run a gay Jewish conference?

At least Lane brought a hookup back from the dance (on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends).

It gets better after the break. Sort of.

Oxford

On Monday the conference was over, thank God, so Lane and I could spend ten days touring some more civilized spots in England: Oxford, Bath, Cerne Abbas, Birmingham, Manchester, and York.

Starting with Oxford. The University was pleasant, although deserted in mid-summer, but we wanted a bookstore. We wanted to buy British paperback editions of Lord Byron, Oscar Wilde, Christopher Marlowe, maybe Gerard Manley Hopkins on "Duns Scotus' Oxford":

Towery city and branchy between towers;

Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmèd, lark charmèd, rook racked, river-rounded;

The dapple-eared lily below thee; that country and town did

Once encounter in, here coped & poisèd powers.

Surely the town with the most famous university in the world would have a bookstore. But our guidebook didn't list any. We wandered around aimlessly until we found a bookstore that specialized in East Asian Studies, and the very surly shopkeeper grunted that he was aware of no other bookstore in town.

Bath

Bath was pleasant. I liked the Roman baths, the Georgian-style Roman Crescent, and the Jane Austin Centre (which did have some of her novels on sale).

My main problem was with the gay Bed and Breakfast where we stayed. In the lounge, they were playing an old movie. I though I recognized the actress, so I said "Is that Marilyn Monroe?"

A bear laid into me: "Of course it is, you twat! What kind of faggot doesn't recognize Marilyn Monroe?"

My esprit de l'escalier has me saying: "The kind of faggot who is not interested in women," but in real life I just exited.

Also: never, under any circumstances, order fish and chips anywhere in England. The locals don't eat it, it will mark you as a tourist (if your accent doesn't), and it will take over an hour to get to your table.

Cerne Abbas

A village in Dorchester famous for its Rude Man, a chalk outline of a n*de man carrying a club. This one was our fault: we assumed that he originated in pagan times (or was an alien), but actually there's no record before the late 17th century. He may be a parody of Oliver Cromwell.

Manchester

An industrial town with a fully-developed Gay Village, like back home in West Hollywood, with bars, bath houses, shops, a community center, social clubs, political clubs, even a gay swim club, where we met a dwarf swimmer.

The only problem was the panhandlers. They were everywhere, and if they suspected you of being American, they got quite aggressive. But San Francisco in the 1990s was the same way.

York

I liked York, too, especially York Minster and the 13th century gate. Of course, this being England, there were bound to be a few problems:

1. The train station with no signs on the tracks, so you didn't know which to board, and the guy we asked deliberately gave us wrong directions.

2. The bed and breakfast where the desk lady said "Oh, I have you down for a double bed by mistake. Don't worry, duckies, I'll put you in a room with two twins." But that happened everywhere in Europe in the 1990s.

3. Since Lane and I were traveling together, wouldn't it make sense for me to pay for both of our bus fares, and tell the driver, "For two"? Nope, the driver had no idea what I meant.

"For two?"

A blank expression.

"I'm paying for the two of us?"

A blank expression.

"I just put two fares into the till, two fares because there are two of us?"

Finally she figured it out, but she was not happy. "If you want to pay twice, that's your business, but your mate has to pay for his own."

But at least we got another hookup, with a guy who was into b*ndage (on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends).

I've been to England two or three times since, and always with more headaches than enjoyment: rude people, labyrinthine streets, impossible, ever-changing rules. But not in Ireland or the Continent, just in England.

Maybe I got off on the wrong foot with the customs agent who insisted that no one ever came to England as a tourist.

See also: Marcus Hodson: Shape-shifting demon or hyper-masculine Midlands model? With n*de merman bonus