Start at the very beginning

(I sat debating with myself for about 10 minutes before pushing publish because if I start, I have to see it to the end. That means tell everything.)

Yeah okay, I'm really excited.

So in February I am getting onto a 747 and flying to Seth Efrika, more specifically to Cape Town (or Keptun as the locals call it).

It's my annual holiday and everytime I go I just ... okay, it will be the fifth time that I'm going. I will have been in the UK for five years.

When I left Cape Town I did so because I was just sick and tired, embarrassed, jaded and bored. I also had a mountain of issues and I figured that leaving South Africa would make them all disappear but about a year into London, they all came flooding back to haunt me.

What are the issues?

Okay. If you keep this relatively quiet, I'll tell you a story or two.

(Sit back because this could get long but I promise it won't be that boring. Unless you count sex, celebrity, drugs, McDonalds and rentboys as somewhat tedious.)

Okay the first thing you should know and I'll just come out and say it, is that back in South Africa I used to be on the TV. And I used to be on the radio. And also in magazines.

I was 23 and I was made a part of something I was too young to handle or comprehend how it would affect me.

Fuck, all the stories I could tell you are enough to fill a blog on its own.

But being that young and having parents/managers etc. push you and being on the radio and on TV and in magazines while trying to mainly hide your sexuality (even though it was nearly an open secret) was shite.

As I write this so the memories (I don't know if they're mortally embarrassing or devastatingly funny) are flooding back.

Maybe I should make a list of them and battle them, one at a day. I can't tell it all in one post.

Yeah - maybe one story at a time is best. So let's start with something tame.

Deep breath.

I was invited to be part of a (celebrity) strip-for-charity event. I was young, I was naive and at that stage I wasn't overweight and unhappy. Of course I leapt at the chance.

There were five "celebrities" and we each had a go. Basically the auctioneer would raise money to "pay" for each piece of clothing we took off, right down to our boxers.

I remember being so nervous before walking on stage, petrified in fact. I had a glass of wine beforehand which quickly turned into a few.

The memories are sketchy and I just don't remember exactly what happened however...I know I poured champagne into my shoe and drank it because there were photos of it printed in the newspaper the next day.

The article was about the "fun" auction and it painted me as Bobby the pissed-up contestant who staggered around a stage to raise money. Everyone gave because they were too embarrassed to do anything else.

You always knew things were wrong when people, instead of praising you, would say nothing at all.

No-one ever mentioned that fucking charity auction again. The PR company who ran it didn't even send a thank you card to me for doing it. Another guy I knew, who took part, was sent a bottle of expensive champagne.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I keep putting my head in my hands when I start to think about this.

Where the fuck was my dignity and my self-esteem? Fuck knows. I just don't know where to begin. There's more. Much more and much worse.

Maybe that's what a blog is all about - airing the things you have kept hidden away inside for so long?

Perhaps it's time I just came out and said it all. Help.