"The landlady was called Ruby. She had what models would pray for: she had these kind of cubit lips. And she was a gin swiller; she had this little 50s cocktail bar in the corner. She called all the men 'her boys'."

The Princess Royal was really a strange place. The landlady was called Ruby. She had what models would pray for: she had these kind of cubit lips. And she was a gin swiller; she had this little 50s cocktail bar in the corner of his bar. She called all the men 'her boys'. And she had this really strange, tall husband but nobody could work out if it actually was her husband or her son.

But the atmosphere was tremendous. It had been a gay pub for years and years. I was fortunate enough to live over the road. It was lovely going in and out of there and seeing what was going on and meeting people.

Ruby didn't like me because she had this back yard which had a window box with tulips in it; they were her pride and joy. A friend and I, quite horribly I suppose, chopped the tulips, wrapped them up as a florist would and gave them to her. She was overjoyed until about half-an-hour later she needed to unburden her gin-soaked bladder and suddenly there was this huge scream and she saw the stalks of these prized tulips. She banned us for about three weeks. And that was quite devastating.

They opened the nightclub upstairs which was superb. It was gays and lesbians, young people, old people - brilliant camaraderie because we were a little bit revolutionary. They were people who were definitely 'out'. They didn't mind being seen going in and out of the pub. We had great fun and I made a lot of friends that I still know.

There used to be these awful supper nights because you couldn't run a late license. You'd arrive and be given a raffle ticket. Half way through the evening you would stop and they would say: 'supper is served' and you'd have to go and get a side plate that had this curled up spam, an almost liquid piece of lettuce and a tomato that would now be called a sundried tomato. That was to get a supper license so you could run the club until 2 o'clock in the morning. Well, that always went down a laugh actually. We always knew the newcomers because it was they who'd eat the food off the sideplates. It was vile. It was a very enjoyable and a very happy place. As far as I was concerned, it was brilliant.

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The funny thing is, within gay society and all this 'body beautiful', I have been to a gay pub and felt very conspicuous because I was there with my walking stick and immediately thought: 'these people are going to believe I've got AIDS/HIV'. And I've spoken to someone else who's seen exactly the same situation. He has a crutch because he has a problem with his leg and he said: "I swear to God when I walk into a pub or a club that everybody thinks I've got Aids."

"Due to gay society's hedonism and body perfect and everything else I'm obviously not a prime candidate for getting anyone between the sheets."

I think that's a failure on gay society's part.

And then I have been to other institutions that actually deal with AIDS and HIV, and the crazy thing is they kind of treat you like you're a piece of glass.

I'm disabled - that's it, simple. I'm not AIDS, HIV or anything. And yet, when I walked in they were all over me as if 'Oh my God, I might break!'. They immediately thought I had AIDS or HIV because I walked through THAT door, which I found pretty rank actually. I found that quite disturbing.

So I tend not to go to gay clubs or gay pubs any more because, firstly I feel uncomfortable, secondly - due to gay society's hedonism and body perfect and everything else - I'm obviously not a prime candidate for getting anyone between the sheets. So I just don't bother any more.

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