VD face, (1978.)
I started puberty much earlier than the other boys at school. So whilst the other boys were still waiting for their bum fluff to kick in, I was given this moniker.
When I see teenagers now I always feel so sorry for them, because your teens are such an emotional rollercoaster anyway, without having to deal with the ravages of acne, blackheads and spots. Suprisingly my eruptive skin didn't bother me in the slightest, nor did my rather cruel nickname.
Helena, Baroness de Sauvigne Rothschild, (1986.)
The next nickname was given to me when I moved in with my godfather in London. It's traditional amongst that generation of gays to give each other daft, old fashioned female nicknames, which usually have their base in cruelty. My godfather was called Mary because his surname was the same as one of the victims of the Yorkshire Ripper, who was called Mary.
Most of the names were old fashioned ones like Doris, Brenda, Ethel, for some reason. I was called Helena because they thought I was a bit posh, what with my private education, degree, and knowing what knife and fork to eat with.
The parties we gave at this time were fantastic, and consisted of the London pink mafia of that time. Typical guests would include Michael Cashman, Paul O'Grady, Lord Montague of Beaulieu, Alan Bates, plus assorted demi-monde of the club scene. A room full of men all calling each other female names, seemed a hoot. Sadly a lot of the people who used to come to the parties never made it through the next decade because of AIDS.
Queenie/Queen (1987.)
At the same time that I was living in the pink ghetto, I was also mixing in an entirely different social set. Through a girl I worked with I was accepted into the south London trustafarian gang, which was weird because I was neither from south London, or had a trust fund.
My friend shared a rather grand house in Clapham with four brothers who had all been at school with Princes Andrew and Edward. The friends and people I met with this group of friends were very different from myself. My parents weren't Royal, nor movie stars, unlike Sean Connery's son, as well as Virginia McKenna and Bill Traver's sons who I now counted amongst my friends.
I was given the name Queenie because the girls didn't believe I was gay. We'd be led in bed naked after a wild night out, when they'd suddenly start laughing and accuse me of not being queenie enough to be gay, and it was just a ploy so I could see their hooters.
So in this side of my life I was Queenie. These weren't Sloane Rangers, which this lot looked down on as either arrivistes or boring. This lot were wild, and the parties were legendary. I had a tryst with someone very famous, who no one knows is that way inclined all though his brother often got a bad press.
Even when meeting the parents of this group of friends I was introduced as Queenie. My Mum hated this nickname, and took some convincing that it wasn't derogatory.
Garinda (2002.)
When I had moved to Scotland my friend Don came up with this name for me. He prides himself with giving people nicknames that stick. He reads this journal, and is most smugly proud that I chose Garinda as my nom de plume on here.
I can't exactly remember how he came up with it. I do remember it was the time when he, John and myself were on our grand tour in Italy. We spent the holiday speaking in this faux Latin, which in the end drove us potty because we couldn't stop doing it. Faux Latin perhaps make it sound too intellectual, it was more like a bad version of Frankie Howard's 'Up Pompeii'.
Anyway, that's when my name became bastardised and I became Garinda, which as been shortened to Rindy because it's too much of a mouthful, but that's a story for another time......
I started puberty much earlier than the other boys at school. So whilst the other boys were still waiting for their bum fluff to kick in, I was given this moniker.
When I see teenagers now I always feel so sorry for them, because your teens are such an emotional rollercoaster anyway, without having to deal with the ravages of acne, blackheads and spots. Suprisingly my eruptive skin didn't bother me in the slightest, nor did my rather cruel nickname.
Helena, Baroness de Sauvigne Rothschild, (1986.)
The next nickname was given to me when I moved in with my godfather in London. It's traditional amongst that generation of gays to give each other daft, old fashioned female nicknames, which usually have their base in cruelty. My godfather was called Mary because his surname was the same as one of the victims of the Yorkshire Ripper, who was called Mary.
Most of the names were old fashioned ones like Doris, Brenda, Ethel, for some reason. I was called Helena because they thought I was a bit posh, what with my private education, degree, and knowing what knife and fork to eat with.
The parties we gave at this time were fantastic, and consisted of the London pink mafia of that time. Typical guests would include Michael Cashman, Paul O'Grady, Lord Montague of Beaulieu, Alan Bates, plus assorted demi-monde of the club scene. A room full of men all calling each other female names, seemed a hoot. Sadly a lot of the people who used to come to the parties never made it through the next decade because of AIDS.
Queenie/Queen (1987.)
At the same time that I was living in the pink ghetto, I was also mixing in an entirely different social set. Through a girl I worked with I was accepted into the south London trustafarian gang, which was weird because I was neither from south London, or had a trust fund.
My friend shared a rather grand house in Clapham with four brothers who had all been at school with Princes Andrew and Edward. The friends and people I met with this group of friends were very different from myself. My parents weren't Royal, nor movie stars, unlike Sean Connery's son, as well as Virginia McKenna and Bill Traver's sons who I now counted amongst my friends.
I was given the name Queenie because the girls didn't believe I was gay. We'd be led in bed naked after a wild night out, when they'd suddenly start laughing and accuse me of not being queenie enough to be gay, and it was just a ploy so I could see their hooters.
So in this side of my life I was Queenie. These weren't Sloane Rangers, which this lot looked down on as either arrivistes or boring. This lot were wild, and the parties were legendary. I had a tryst with someone very famous, who no one knows is that way inclined all though his brother often got a bad press.
Even when meeting the parents of this group of friends I was introduced as Queenie. My Mum hated this nickname, and took some convincing that it wasn't derogatory.
Garinda (2002.)
When I had moved to Scotland my friend Don came up with this name for me. He prides himself with giving people nicknames that stick. He reads this journal, and is most smugly proud that I chose Garinda as my nom de plume on here.
I can't exactly remember how he came up with it. I do remember it was the time when he, John and myself were on our grand tour in Italy. We spent the holiday speaking in this faux Latin, which in the end drove us potty because we couldn't stop doing it. Faux Latin perhaps make it sound too intellectual, it was more like a bad version of Frankie Howard's 'Up Pompeii'.
Anyway, that's when my name became bastardised and I became Garinda, which as been shortened to Rindy because it's too much of a mouthful, but that's a story for another time......