GAYS OF OUR LIVES NILES CRANE     Hello boys and girls.  Apologies for writing to you all simultaneously again, and anyone who bothers writing to me individually will get the same in return of course, but let's face it - that rules YOU out.  Besides it saves time and energy to do it all at once - and you know what precious commodities those are to me in my busy social whirl.  (Shut your face.)   On Friday I had the pleasure of meeting up with Ben, an email friend who I've never previously met despite him living in Chester.  Chester, for those of you who don't know (which is to say all of you) is a Roman/Tudor city outside Liverpool where the wealthy and  middle class live - or at least go to live when they decide they classify as the wealthy and middle class. Make that upper-middle class.  Anyhow, I met Ben in Liverpool at the Albert Dock (poncified victorian docklands full of cafes, boutiques and tourists).   Young Benjamin, can only be described as "posh".  All of 26, he's a classical pianist for the Philharmonic, the BBC etc.He was schooled in Edinburgh and Cambridge and the family lived in Sri Lanka for some years (No doubt passing delightful summer evenings whipping the natives for not collecting enough tea from the plantation, and whipping them harder for collecting too much.  Oh how we laughed!)  A sweet boy, you understand, and really quite attractive - but if you've ever seen the tv show "Frasier" you'd appreciate the sense of Deja Vu that overcame me when talking to him.  He was not as other men. His first words were to comment how odd it was to be in Liverpool, like going to Mars.  He meant it in a kindly, loving way, you understand.  I imagine he was struggling not to use the word "quaint".  Well quite. Me:  "So tell me about Sri Lanka?"                He: "Well...it's like this island at the bottom of India...." Me:  "What do you mean, you get on well with people who are unlike you?"   He:  "Well..mmm..the kind of people who sell shoes and eat cheese sandwiches.."                                   Oh.  Those people.   It turns out his surname is  the same as that of  my brother's "wife" (unmarried).  I told him this.  Perhaps they're relatives of his, he observed.  Me: "I don't think so!"        He:  "You don't know my family.  My mum's nice, but my dad's relatives are scum."                                    I see.  Then we must be related.   Perhaps I'm being unkind.  I was, after all, paying no attention whatsoever since we were sitting in a cafe/bistro/wotsit on a long table shared with 3 young men who I would not wish to meet in a back alley.  Unless of course it was my back alley, in which case I'd put out the flags.  Tall, italian complexion, bulging biceps in tight black t-shirts - I swear I couldn't have stood up if I wanted to.  Not without knocking the table over.  But one of them, when he turned, appeared to be straight out of Central Casting.  One eye was blinded and scarred and you knew - just knew - he lost it in a fight with a Portuguese fisherman.  So when I'm indulging in high pitched chat with Lordy Snooty about people who eat Cheese sandwiches and other common acts of barbarism I was doing my best to look like I was sitting in another room.  Perhaps I was too distracted to notice him fart, belch and raise a glass as he offered "Three cheer's for his bloomin' lordship, and gawd bless the Prince o' Wales, an' no mistake Guv'nor!!" Well, he might have said things like that.  So we mustn't judge too harshly.   We wandered into the Tate gallery.  Yes Liverpool has the second branch of the world famous Tate (let's pretend you've heard of it).  The one in London is full of Old Masters (he said, pretending he knew..), but it's Liverpool sister gallery boasts housing Europe's finest collection of late 20th century shite.  I imagine it must be a century and a half since "The Emperor's New Clothes" was written, but if Hans Christian Anderson were around today  they'd have him on display.  My particular favourite was a Television Set.  Switched on.  It's a collage you see.  Of course it is.  My second choice - also a "collage" was a display case of common or garden kid's plastic farm animals lined up and..well..that's it. When I think of the fortune I could have made if I hadn't flushed the toilet this morning, it breaks my heart.  I can't do it now - it would lack spontanaity.  Shit. The sculptures were all adorned with the words "please do no touch", but you could just make out were they'd painted over "..with a bargepole".  The instruction was well intended but un-necessary.       In the entrance hall large metal boxes evoke the spheres moving thorugh the heavens.  And that's an order - it says so on the wall.  I'm no expert but if you have to be  told what it is then it almost certainly isn't.     The Tate is an Art Gallery.  This you have to be told.   Oh but look at the time!  You do go on!  Next time let's talk about me.