Cut and Blow

“I’ve found someone who will come to the house and cut my hair… plus I think I can fiddle with his cock while he does it,” was the greeting that welcomed me home as I walked in the door.

It turns out that my partner had been chatting to a Turkish barber on Grindr who offers home visits.

While it is not officially permitted, it is not uncommon for guys to sell their services on Grindr, but it tends to be more trade than tradesmen. You will frequently be spammed by escorts, sex parties and only-fans sites, but I have occasionally been approached by decorators, electricians, gardeners and once a plasterer from Bilston, who we did consider hiring, as we needed the chimneybreast skimming, but I accidently deleted his details during an overzealous purge of Grindr messages.

This offer of a haircut could not have come at a better time, as my partner was long overdue one. He is thinning on top, so when his hair gets too long, the sides tend to stick out, giving him a look that he has christened ‘Clown-head’ and puts me in mind of a mad scientist. He had spent the past fortnight looking like he was on the cusp of cracking the secret of alchemy or converting a DeLorean into a time machine.


“I’m not sure about the whole set up though,” my partner said, fretting about the impending house call.

We debated whether the fact that money was exchanging hands made this lad a sex worker?

“He is only charging ten pounds more than you would pay at the barbers and you have the convenience of him coming to the house,” I offered. “The extra tenner just covers his taxi, surely? It’s a good price for a haircut and you might get some action too, although I would be cautious about groping someone while they are holding a pair of scissors in their hand,” I warned. “You don’t want to startle him at a tricky moment and end up looking like Van Gogh.”

We decided that he was a hairstylist with optional extras, little different from visiting a salon and being offered refreshments or a free nasal wax.

“I think he is just a horny lad,” my partner decided, “with a unique technique for meeting guys.”


I have myself been approached to offer extras for cash on a few occasions… but coyishly declined.

One time, I was stood at the urinal in the now defunct toilets under the McDonald’s ramp (don’t judge me), when a grubby old man sidled up, pushed a crumbled £20 note in my direction and muttered, “Blow job, blow job.”

I gave him a disdainful look, zipped up and left, but he wasn’t going to give up easily and followed me out.

So began a cat and mouse pursuit through Birmingham city centre. Everywhere I went, he followed. If I paused to look in a shop window or walked into a store, he would sneak up on me and repeat his lewd demand.

I suppose I could have just made a run for it and lost him in the crowds, but I had a better idea. I led him a merry dance down New Street and into the Pavilions shopping centre, occasionally slowing my pace to allow him to catch up.

I rode the escalators up to the top floor of the mall, turning to check that he was still on my tail, and walked into Marks & Spencer. I found a particularly busy department, where I stopped and feigned interest in a rack of clothing.

Inevitably, the creepy guy sidled up to me and again whispered, “Blow job, blow job.”

I turned on him and at the top of my voice bellowed, “I AM NOT GOING TO SUCK YOU OFF IN MARKS AND SPENCERS!!!”, shocking my dogged pursuer and the gaggle of prim women of a certain age, who were perusing M&S fashions in our immediate vicinity.

The guy turned grey and scuttled out of the store as fast as he could.

I gave the slack jawed customer closest to me my sweetest smile and departed, with my head held high.

I had been inspired by the example of a friend whom, when she was groped on the London tube, immediately grasped the offender’s hand, thrust it into the air and shouted, “Whose grubby little hand is this?!”

Her handsy admirer had also made a hasty exit, jumping off at the next stop. 


Back with the mobile barber, my partner had finally set up an appointment, after several failed attempts.

“Well, I hope I have a sexual encounter this afternoon,” he told me in desperation, as I left for work that morning, “or, at the very least, a haircut.”


Apparently, it was all a little chaste when the barber did finally show up.

He set up in the kitchen, unpacked the tools of his trade and set to work, awkwardly engaging in the usual barber banter about holidays and the like in his limited English.

“You know, you have thick hair on the sides,” he said. “You could grow it to cover the thinning on top.”

“What and look like Donald Trump?!”

He started to giggle, then out of the blue, he asked, “So, are you a top or a bottom? I am bi myself.”

He presumably meant ‘versatile’, but my partner didn’t like to correct him, besides he found it endearing (but why they had left it to this stage to establish the basics, I have no idea?).

After the haircut was finished, the lad swept up then stepped into the lounge and politely commented on how much he liked the décor, then directly asked, “Are you going to suck my cock or not?”


“The sweetest thing about him was how shy he was,” my partner told me when he relayed the encounter that evening. “I might get my hair cut again next week.”

Glancing at my own unkempt lockdown locks in the mirror, I commented, “I could do with a cut myself. Do you think he would offer a ‘blow and go’ two for one discount?”

That special offer never happened, but I did look at my partner yesterday and commented, “You need a blowjob.”

“I’m sorry?” He responded, indignantly.

I smirked, “Have you seen the state of your hair?”

Something for the weekend, Sir?

God Save The Queen

The Victoria is a beautiful 19th Century pub which stands proudly on the corner of John Bright Street, beneath the mezzanine that connects the two halves, old and new, of The Alexandra Theatre.

There are so many reasons to love this pub, from its elegant exterior, curving around the bend of the road, to the funky murals that adorn the walls the back bar. A bust of Queen Victoria sits on the internal canopy above the now superfluous central door (It should really be on the corner of the bar, like the one in its fictitious namesake on the BBC soap opera EastEnders), keeping an imperious eye on events. 

I experience a daft thrill every time I arrange to meet friends at The Victoria, because in my mind I have the raspy East End tones of Phil Mitchell, when I say, “See yer daaaaan the Vic.”


The place had a far more shabby feel when I first visited, but a great collection of signed photos, from the multitude of stars that had frequented the bar while performing at the theatre next-door, framed and displayed up the stairs leading to the function room. I was always enamoured with the one of the marvellous Yootha Joyce, best known for 70’s sitcom George and Mildred.

A decade or so ago, The Vic underwent a thankfully sympathetic makeover, which gave the gaff a much-needed spruce up, while retaining all its original character and charm, which is more than can be said for the poor Prince of Wales, the theatre pub situated behind the Birmingham REP.


The Prince of Wales was a gem, complete with separate bar, lounge and snug, but I received a shock, over twenty years ago, when I went in and found that the partitions had gone and all the original Victorian features had been ripped out and replaced with mock Victorian facsimiles. I had been half distracted by the book I was reading as I entered (I used to be able to read and walk. Nowadays, I can’t even text while on the move without mishap) and actually thought for a moment that I had wandered into the wrong pub, going as far as stepping back outside to check the sign.

I positioned myself on a seat by the door to await my friend’s imminent arrival and see her response to the changes. She didn’t disappoint, stopping sharp on the threshold and giving a flutter of flummoxed blinks, as though she had just received a slap to the face.

“Yes,” I said, “that was my reaction when I walked in too.”

A few days later, I was telling a colleague about the fate of the Prince of Wales, when she started bobbing about excitedly and interjected, “Oh my God, I agree! My dad owns a print company and while it was closed for refurbishment, he and I went on a stealth mission one night and bill posted the windows with sarcastic posters saying, ‘A little bit of Disney in the heart of Birmingham.’ The contractors left them there for ages as they thought that the brewery had put them up.”


The Victoria was the site of my first tantalising encounter with the Birmingham gay scene (Wondering when this was going to go gay weren’t you? A mention of Yootha Joyce not enough?!).

To expand our understanding of modern art, my A-level art class had been instructed to buddy up with a partner and visit the Ikon Gallery, which at the time was located just down he street from The Victoria.

So, one weekend, we obediently made our way to the gallery, under our own steam, where we made notes on any work that caught our attention.

As we headed back toward New Street Station, we passed The Victoria.

The pub has always attracted a mix of gay and straight clientele and on this summer’s afternoon a group of lads were gathered outside on the pavement, enjoying a drink and cigarettes in the sun.

At the sight of two fresh-faced chickens, the boys began to wolf whistle and call out lude comments, much to my friend’s discomfort and my barely concealed delight.

This was my first encounter with anyone that was gay, and I couldn’t let the moment pass without somehow letting them know that I was secretly one of the family.

I used to wear my keys on a long chain attached to one of the beltloops on my trousers. I had been warned by my sister to always keep the keys in my front pocket, because having the chain lead to your rear pocket meant you were queer, in a secret signal akin to the handkerchief code or which side you had your ear pierced.

As we continued down the road, I discreetly took my keys from their ingrained front pocket and slipped them pointedly into the back, then stole a quick glance to see the response.

The catcalling immediately halted and one guy nudged his friend to draw attention to my symbolic gesture. I remember briefly seeing their smiles of understanding and one boy gave me a subtle nod of solidarity. For the first time, I was not alone.


Some evenings, you might see the odd famous face in The Victoria, if the cast of whatever show is on at The Alex goes to the pub for a post-performance drink.

I was told by the lesbian couple that ran the place, prior to its makeover, about the night TV Timelord, Sylvester McCoy (7th incarnation of Doctor Who), strolled into the bar, slammed his walking cane on the wooden floor, and declared, “THE DOCTOR IS IN!”

Both women looked at each other and simultaneously asked, “Who?”


On another occasion, I was lucky enough to sit two tables from a childhood crush, when Todd Carty (Grange Hill’s Tucker Jenkins) called in after a performance of Spamalot.

When he headed toward the gent’s toilets, my mate nodded in his direction and suggested, “Now’s your chance.”

It had been many years since Todd Carty had been the lanky heartthrob of my youth (having moved on to EastEnders, The Bill and hilariously lost control and crashed off the rink and out of Dancing on Ice… through the emergency exit), but some bits never change, so I followed him in for a peek.

That was Tucker’s cock ticked off the bucket list.


I clearly remember the first time I had a drink in The Victoria.

I was away at university but visiting my home city to see a production of Martin Sherman’s Bent with some friends.

We were puzzled by the eclectic mix of characters in the bar, which included a group of old chaps in flat caps, scene queens and a crowd that appeared to be work colleagues.

Curious to determine the demographic, I approached the matronly barmaid.

“Excuse me,” I asked, “but what type of pub is this? I can’t work out if it is gay or straight.”

“Oh luv, it’s a mix of everyone,” she told me. “We ‘av gays, residents from Stephenson Tower (now demolished) and postal workers from the Royal Mail building (now the The Mailbox). We all muddle along together.”


Here’s to The Victoria, the reigning Regina of Birmingham pubs… then, now and forever.