Friday, 17 October 2014


There was a horrorshow on, a few weeks back, in the wee, small hours;  I Married The Waiter, it was called, about older British women going to the Med or the Aegean, falling in love with young natives, 

marrying them and it all going horribly wrong, just like you'd expect; it was grotesque, bizarre and revolting, one seventy-six-year old drooling and cackling about the great sex she had with young Stavros or Dimitri, 

whom she had briefly and disastrously married, when he was twenty-two. 

 It wasn't the aesthetic of it which troubled me, grannysex, or great-granny sex with a kid,  and I even tried to congratulate both parties for their, what, their enthusiasm, I suppose, but all the time one knew that this was all doomed to end in heartache and embarrassment,  all the time one knew that this was aberrant and symptomatic of  Ruin, of a Me generation, once new and stupid, now grown old and stupid, an octogenarian humping a boy barely our of his teens  can, I guess, be seen as an act of liberation from gender stereotyping; just not by me, it made me cringe and squirm.  

And anyway, all but one of these old biddies deeply regretted their actions, some even seeing them for what they were, exploitative sex tourism, with old women playing the role more usually associated with old men, visiting Bangkok, spending their pensions on child abuse.

I suspect, though, that my view is anachronistic and that, among many who should know better,  Do what thou wilt is now the whole of the law.  I say this because  of the most recent such outrageous behaviour.  A seventy-year old Brit, Ray Cole, 

 found instant love online with a twenty-two year old Moroccan boy, Jamal, and flew from Britain to be with him and plan their life together. 

Unfortunatley for Ray,  Morocco is not what it was, a degenerate's playground,   and when the local Filth spotted Jamal and Ray in their hotel, they pounced.  At first they didn't want to nick Ray but he screeched and hissed so much that eventually they did, threw him in the slammer and left him to stew for a while.  It was A Nightmare, he fumes, MyHellOnEarth.  They didn't beat him or torture him or anything, just left him locked-up with lots of unpleasant guards and unpleasant prisoners, could have been in Winson Green or   Wakefield, come to think about it, but for Ray it was just the horriblest thing. 

 They even scrutinised his i-thing, which contained what he calls a sex-picture of himself although his lovely, darling Jamal was not in the shot. You might wonder, as do I,


 just what exactly the fuck a seventy-year old man is doing, carrying a sex picture of himself around the world; you might think that what with the Wars on Terror and Drugs, with the dawning of a realisation that there is no such thing as Privacy that this intolerably stupid old fuck was begging for trouble, embarrassment,  incarceration and self-publicity.  

Well, he got what he wanted, an almost full-page spread in the unspeakable Guardian, screeching his silly old head off,  about his treatment, about his love for Jamal, how he wants to get him political asylum in the UK  and a degree course in economics and  for them to just live happily ever after; y'know, just have a normal life together.

The Guardianista commenters were outraged on his behalf, the govament must do something, this is an outrage, dreadful, poor man, discriminated against like this. And when one person finally just mentioned that maybe sex tourism was not altogether a thing we should support there came an avalanche of heterosexist abuse - how dare you, they spluttered, one after another, how dare you,, how very dare you?

There was a time when the Guardian would have reported old Ray's dodgy conduct with a little more realism.  Old gay crosses world to meet vulnerable young man, that sort of thing, because it was and is that sort of thing;  as with the old women,  it is the commodification of  poor peoples' youth and genitalia.  I wish the Moroccans had kept him a bit longer, Ray, given him a chance to prove the depth of his love for the boy he had known for oh,  all of a few days, and had hoped to purchase outright.      


Anonymous said...

Looks like Sergeant Cous-cous had a different understanding of "try before you buy". Serves the silly old fool right, really.

I still think Crowley's "Do what thou wilt" didn't mean "do whatcha want", but I agree it might as well have done.

A Ruin collector's item in today's news - blind lady trying to get her shopping done in a North London Tesco shouted at by cashiers who took offence at her guide-dog: "no pets allowed." We're not told but I wonder if this is some fuckwit freaking out because dogs "are unclean, innit". They should have to lick the dog's arse every Sunday til they learn some fucking manners...though the dog would probably refuse, quite rightly.


callmeishmael said...

An argument rages, here, mr verge, about the derivation of do what thou wilt etc , mrs ishmael agrees with you, that it is suffixed, in Crowley, with but Do no harm; I have a memory that it or something similar is Rabelaisian, whichever, he is a creepy old creep, Mr Cole, housebrick, rub-down, punch in gob.

Anonymous said...

I think the Rabelais construction was part of a utopian notion of true freedom leading to honourable action; Crowley's remix more along the lines of purifying magical intent. Not sure he cared much for the "do no harm" idea; always struck me as a mischief-making, high-achieving sociopath (and a tremendous pervert, as well, of course.)

On the off-chance it's not a name you know, check out the wikipedia page on Jack Parsons - not just dissolute rock-stars who jived to Crowley's strange beats.


call me ishmael said...

Christ, that's a whole other world, mr verge, of esoteria, conspiracy and mystery; bisexual rocket scientists, godesses, Howard Hughes, JPL, Roswell and a plague of ghrieving UFOs; makes Led Zeppelin look like Noddy and Big Ears.

Alphons said...

The problem as far as po0r old Ray was concerned was that he is not a politician.

SG said...

It is like some scholck-horror movie, Mr I. Cadavers feeding off the souls (or, in some cases, the arseholes) of the young. What is it with these people and what the fuck are they looking for? I'm fucked if I know and I don't expect you to either Mr I. I don't favour censorship but this depravity TV shit tests my generally liberal (with a very small 'c') disposition.

SG said...

I meant, of course, a small 'l' but maybe a Freudian, even fatal, slip occurred!

yardarm said...

Do what thou wilt: the motto of Francis Dashwood and the Hellfire Club of the 1750`s ?

jgm2 said...

I was swatted down years ago on another forum for pointing out the duplicity of condemning men for sex-tourism in Thailand or the Philippines while turning a blind eye to the ... errrr... ladies heading off to Turkey, Tunisia, Morocco and Ghana and fuck knows where else for precisely the same reason.

And then they went and made a film about it. You know. The one where the old lady leaves her husband, fucks off to Greece and fucks somebody else - Shirley Valentine - that's the one.

It's one of those irregular verbs Mr I.

I go on holiday and have an intense personal experience.

You go on holiday and sleep with the waiter.

He goes on holiday and fucks a Thai whore.

mrs narcolept said...

Eight words the Wiccan rede fulfil
An it harm none, do what you will

Only I don't think that was Crowley's idea.

Sophia Loren got it right I think - somehow no one ever falls in love with a poor old person.

Bungalow Bill said...

Gayness has become a free pass in our society, a badge of honour and style to dazzle dreary heteros and a mark which none dare question on pain of prosecution or exclusion. Not so, alas, in Africa and other similarly unenlightened arenas where they take a dim and robust view and don't care, as you say, to have their youth bought up by repellent old narcissists like this fool. Always a joy to see the Guardian thinkers imperially enraged by the refusal of the Third World to behave itself in matters of buggery.

Alphons said...

"yardarm said...

Do what thou wilt: the motto of Francis Dashwood and the Hellfire Club of the 1750`s ?"

Did Ray manage it before he wilted?

blackholesunset said...

This struck a chord. Thank you, Mr Ishmael.

"When I don't know what to do, I come here."