New York. Photograph: Getty Images
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I’ve got the New York bug – and it turns out the condition is hereditary

Nicholas Lezard's "Down and Out" column.

So it looks as though I am going to be going to New York again. My mother, who left Manhattan to be with my father over half a century ago, still feels the pull of the place and has decided that she had better go there one more time while she still can. And the reason I can afford to go there is because she’s paying for my ticket. Well, you don’t turn down a free trip to New York, do you? Not even with your mother. Who, in my case, will be keeping a beady eye on the number of brandy-and-sodas I drink as part of my copyrighted anti-jet-lag system on the way there and back.

She has friends there, although sadly Cousin Lee, who mesmerised me when I was a child not because he was obviously gay but because he shaved with lather and a blade, died in 2009. Going to see him was the true, classy New York experience: a place in the mid-50s, east side, a luxurious apartment with a kitchen the size of a tea-chest (in which, however, he could cook sumptuous meals); trips to Chinatown and the best Jewish delis in town.

My mother, who used to appear on Broadway, still has New York in her blood and she would always watch the latest New Yorkbased TV shows – Rhoda, Kojak – so she could see how her city was getting on. “The best Kojak episodes are the ones with drugs in them,” she once confided in me and she was right – nothing else provided such a frisson, and a scene where the bald, lollipop sucking Telly Savalas shows his nephew a tenement stuffed with shivering junkies has probably done more than anything else to keep me off the skag for life.

The condition – New Yorkitis – is hereditary. I showed the kids The Odd Couple with Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon the other weekend and despite there being no spies, spaceships or elves in it, just a lot of talk, they loved it. And what talk. The film may be a thinly disguised version of a play with a low proportion of exterior shots, but it is as muggy with the atmosphere of the place as an un-air-conditioned summer’s day there. The natural heat of the place is, in its way, a character; think also of Rear Window. I first went to the city as a child, around the same time The Odd Couple was made, and to me that is how New York is meant to look: the cabs are that shape, policemen’s caps are pointy around the circumference, like Officer Dibble’s in Top Cat, and the men wear natty pork-pie hats. It’s as archaic an image as that of a London wracked with pea-soupers but any deviation from it I am capable of blanking utterly. There are enough satisfactory relics.

That said, I tend to enjoy the full contemporary experience when I go to the City That Never Sleeps, which means I am more John Self in Money than the loquacious nebbish of a Woody Allen story. And after the last time, which ended up in a miserable, hopeless search round the Diamond District for a stolen gold watch, I was more than half glad that financial considerations would prevent me from making the trip there ever again. I need to be kept on a leash while I’m there. It starts with oysters at Grand Central and ends up trying to give the correct description to a policeman in Times Square at four o’clock in the morning.

I wonder whether the problem is that London isn’t really anything, but New York really is New York. When T S Eliot called London the Unreal City, he was on to something. London is simply too sprawling for us to see it – we’re out of scale with it, or in the wrong dimension.

I’ve lived here for about 98 per cent of my life and feel my grasp of the place actually slipping as I get older. Whereas New York’s quiddity and immensity peers down at you the whole time. The place is an intramuscular injection of hard-core, uncut cityness which, after London’s methadone, comes as quite a jolt and can cause some people to overdose. And you don’t have to be a big, brash city to have this effect on the Londoner: pretty much anywhere else can do it.

Meanwhile, I flick through the pages of my stiff new US passport. Compared with its predecessor, this is a document so stuffed with patriotic bling that it makes you want to cringe. Each page has either an eagle or a cowboy or a steam train or a sailing ship or a Statue of Liberty and an inspiring quote to go with it. It’s funny. Every time I think to myself that this is the time I will cast off my wimpy Englishness and move to the US, something happens to make me go “oh, deary me. Tut tut.”

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 10 June 2013 issue of the New Statesman, G0

Biteback and James Wharton
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“It was the most traumatic chapter of my life”: ex-soldier James Wharton on his chemsex addiction

One of the British Army’s first openly gay soldiers reveals how he became trapped in a weekend world of drug and sex parties.

“Five days disappeared.” James Wharton, a 30-year-old former soldier, recalls returning to his flat in south London at 11pm on a Sunday night in early March. He hadn’t eaten or slept since Wednesday. In the five intervening days, he had visited numerous different apartments, checked in and out of a hotel room, partied with dozens of people, had sex, and smoked crystal meth “religiously”.

One man he met during this five-day blur had been doing the same for double the time. “He won’t have been exaggerating,” Wharton tells me now. “He looked like he’d been up for ten days.”

On Monday, Wharton went straight to his GP. He had suffered a “massive relapse” while recovering from his addiction to chemsex: group sex parties enhanced by drugs.

“Crystal meth lets you really dig in, to use an Army term”

I meet Wharton on a very different Monday morning six months after that lost long weekend. Sipping a flat white in a sleek café workspace in Holborn, he’s a stroll away from his office in the city, where he works as a PR. He left the Army in 2013 after ten years, having left school and home at 16.


Wharton left school at 16 to join the Army. Photo: Biteback

With his stubble, white t-shirt and tortoise shell glasses, he now looks like any other young media professional. But he’s surfacing from two years in the chemsex world, where he disappeared to every weekend – sometimes for 72 hours straight.

Back then, this time on a Monday would have been “like a double-decker bus smashing through” his life – and that’s if he made it into work at all. Sometimes he’d still be partying into the early hours of a Tuesday morning. The drugs allow your body to go without sleep. “Crystal meth lets you really dig in, to use an Army expression,” Wharton says, wryly.


Wharton now works as a PR in London. Photo: James Wharton

Mainly experienced by gay and bisexual men, chemsex commonly involves snorting the stimulant mephodrone, taking “shots” (the euphoric drug GBL mixed with a soft drink), and smoking the amphetamine crystal meth.

These drugs make you “HnH” (high and horny) – a shorthand on dating apps that facilitate the scene. Ironically, they also inhibit erections, so Viagra is added to the mix. No one, sighs Wharton, orgasms. He describes it as a soulless and mechanical process. “Can you imagine having sex with somebody and then catching them texting at the same time?”

“This is the real consequence of Section 28”

Approximately 3,000 men who go to Soho’s 56 Dean Street sexual health clinic each month are using “chems”, though it’s hard to quantify how many people regularly have chemsex in the UK. Chemsex environments can be fun and controlled; they can also be unsafe and highly addictive.

Participants congregate in each other’s flats, chat, chill out, have sex and top up their drugs. GBL can only be taken in tiny doses without being fatal, so revellers set timers on their phones to space out the shots.

GBL is known as “the date rape drug”; it looks like water, and a small amount can wipe your memory. Like some of his peers, Wharton was raped while passed out from the drug. He had been asleep for six or so hours, and woke up to someone having sex with him. “That was the worst point, without a doubt – rock bottom,” he tells me. “[But] it didn’t stop me from returning to those activities again.”

There is a chemsex-related death every 12 days in London from usually accidental GBL overdoses; a problem that Wharton compares to the AIDS epidemic in a book he’s written about his experiences, Something for the Weekend.


Wharton has written a book about his experiences. Photo: Biteback

Wharton’s first encounter with the drug, at a gathering he was taken to by a date a couple of years ago, had him hooked.

“I loved it and I wanted more immediately,” he recalls. From then on, he would take it every weekend, and found doctors, teachers, lawyers, parliamentary researchers, journalists and city workers all doing the same thing. He describes regular participants as the “London gay elite”.

“Chemsex was the most traumatic chapter of my life” 

Topics of conversation “bounce from things like Lady Gaga’s current single to Donald Trump”, Wharton boggles. “You’d see people talking about the general election, to why is Britney Spears the worst diva of them all?”

Eventually, he found himself addicted to the whole chemsex culture. “It’s not one single person, it’s not one single drug, it’s just all of it,” he says.



Wharton was in the Household Cavalry alongside Prince Harry. Photos: Biteback and James Wharton

Wharton feels the stigma attached to chemsex is stopping people practising it safely, or being able to stop. He’s found a support network through gay community-led advice services, drop-ins and workshops. Not everyone has that access, or feels confident coming forward.

“This is the real consequence of Section 28,” says Wharton, who left school in 2003, the year this legislation against “promoting” homosexuality was repealed. “Who teaches gay men how to have sex? Because the birds and the bees chat your mum gives you is wholly irrelevant.”


Wharton was the first openly gay soldier to appear in the military in-house magazine. Photo courtesy of Biteback

Wharton only learned that condoms are needed in gay sex when he first went to a gay bar at 18. He was brought up in Wrexham, north Wales, by working-class parents, and described himself as a “somewhat geeky gay” prior to his chemsex days.

After four years together, he and his long-term partner had a civil partnership in 2010; they lived in a little cottage in Windsor with two dogs. Their break-up in 2014 launched him into London life as a single man.

As an openly gay soldier, Wharton was also an Army poster boy; he appeared in his uniform on the cover of gay magazine Attitude. He served in the Household Cavalry with Prince Harry, who once defended him from homophobic abuse, and spent seven months in Iraq.


In 2012, Wharton appeared with his then civil partner in Attitude magazine. Photo courtesy of Biteback

A large Union Jack shield tattoo covering his left bicep pokes out from his t-shirt – a physical reminder of his time at war on his now much leaner frame. He had it done the day he returned from Iraq.

Yet even including war, Wharton calls chemsex “the most traumatic chapter” of his life. “Iraq was absolutely Ronseal, it did exactly what it said on the tin,” he says. “It was going to be a bit shit, and then I was coming home. But with chemsex, you don’t know what’s going to happen next.

“When I did my divorce, I had support around me. When I did the Army, I had a lot of support. Chemsex was like a million miles an hour for 47 hours, then on the 48th hour it was me on my own, in the back of an Uber, thinking where did it all go wrong? And that’s traumatic.”

Something for the Weekend: Life in the Chemsex Underworld by James Wharton is published by Biteback.

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 10 June 2013 issue of the New Statesman, G0