Spade Braithwaite: The Man Behind the Legend
In 1966, I was born at home in Oxford, England. My family seemed respectable enough, to the casual eye.
At the age of four, I realized that I was heterosexual while studying the underwear section of the Kay’s catalogue in a pile of magazines at the back of our garage. That was 1970, when underwear was large, warm and comfortable. I make no apologies for my continuing fascination with real women in proper underwear.
My formative years were largely wasted by a local school that regarded actual learning and knowledge as a frivolous pursuit.
Upon escaping school, I travelled the world in every direction, working in every, appalling industry. So far, I have lived as an an illegal immigrant on three different continents, acquiring all the experience to write genuinely sordid stories of mischief and debauchery observed through a panorama of differing cultural perspectives. Somewhere along the line I managed to get, “Cogito ergo sum”, tattooed on my penis. To date, I’ve only had cause to regret the stupid things that I haven’t done.
I currently have multiple nationalities but nowhere that I could call home.
My abiding ambition is to get a modest advance on one of my novels so that I can fuck-off and spend the rest of my life vagabonding around the warm parts of Asia, writing very competent, formulaic sequels on a lap-top. Drinking palm-wine and soliciting the local talent. Meeting my agents and publishers at the airport for their tax-deductible missions to drink beer on tropical beaches. Rolling west occasionally to accept awards and do promotional tours.
It’s a modest ambition.
Oh, and George Harrison was my favourite Beatle.
Q. Are you gay?
A. No. I’m just a naturally flamboyant character.
Q. You dress well, and you’re quite sensitive, are you sure you’re not gay?
A. I’m sure I’m not gay.
Q. There’s nothing wrong with being gay…
A. I’M NOT GAY!