Tuesday, 22 February 2011

Ode on a Grubby Technology

Dear reader, it has been too long,
You find my days of wand'ring gone,
I am return'd to lands Down Under
To live, for now, in rural splendour,
To work upon a dream I had
And spend some time with mum and dad.

The downside of this happy play
Is that I shan't e'er get laid,
For in this town it's best to check
'Fore winking at the wrong redneck,
For inspiration I did seek
Good friend K, and thus spake he:

Where God provides technology
The Gays will use it to find thee,
Go online, you cannot fail
To find the queers in Armidale,
And tho' ye seekest near and far
There is no site to best 'Gaydar.'

Oh Gaydar! With its lovely racks
Of rounded buttocks and six-packs,
Of smould'ring snaps with iPhone apps
And gentlemen re-plumbing taps,
A flesh-toned smorgasbord for free,
Aye! Gaydar 'tis the one for thee.”

But surely not!” I did protest,
I look for love, and do suspect
That tho' they look like lots of fun,
Donkeydude and Bigboy1
Would not be into Keats and Chaucer
And watching sunsets o'er the water.”

Sir!” quoth he, “'Tis to your shame
To so besmirch sweet Gaydar's name,
Yes, one-night stands are offered there
But so is love and cuddly bears,
You simply need to learn the trick
Of skipping o'er the torso pics.”

And so forewarned I did set forth
Upon my Quest, sans cyber horse,
I wove a web of shining words
That describ-ed me in glowing terms,
And set it 'mongst a gallery
Of photos free from nudity.

With hallow'd ping! and pop-up message
My membership it was accepted,
Thence in inner sanctum, cold and pale,
Lady Gaydar pulled back the veil...
T'were sixty homos in my town!
Hangin' out and bummin' round.

Three score gayer deviants?
In Armidale? The world did tilt,
Good God! The butcher's love of meat!
The baker sweats from more than heat!
And candlesticks made long and bent
Are suddenly advertisement!

Those sixty I did whittle down
To a shortlist of, well, ah, none,
For Our Dear Lord did not them bless
With gentle smile and golden tress
But rather took a bag of crabs
And smashed it up to make these lads.

Dispirited, I did abandon
My Quest for days, where upon
A gentleman from Sydney Town
Wrote to say were e'er I down
My acquaintance he would like to make,
To talk of Keats and postulate.

Wond'rous news! Ye, I did reply,
He spoke in turn of my sweet smile
And flowing locks of burnished gold
That he would like so much to hold
And stroke, and smell, and lick caresses
He was a follicle obsessive!

Out freaks! Out! Cast them out!
I knew they lurk-ed hereabouts,
Henceforth from Gaydar shall I flee
Lest I too a hairlicker be,
I will be strong, I shall not fail,
Oh! What's this? Another 'mail.

A missive from a simple farmer,
A soul of earth and good endeavour,
With photos too, so I might see
The calibre of man he be,
No snuffling hair from this fine spirit
Who tills the earth as Adam did.

The first portrait didst show him flinging
Straw from a ute with tackle swinging,
Then lying 'side a billabong
In birthday suit with trim too long,
But best of all was saved for last;
Full frontal of his captain's mast.

It filled the screen! 'Twas quite the shock
To be so overwhelm-ed by a cock,
It had an air of wrinkled prune
Found behind the 'fridge at noon,
Or hairless dormouse that you see
Emerging from a knotted tree.

Now 'tis a wisdom widely held
In village, meadow, glade and dell,
That 'tis not ideal to receive
A flaccid penis o'er morning tea,
So reader, pause awhile for me,
And think of cock with museli.

What does one do when so presented?
What rules of phallic etiquette?
As men of ladies do times request
Show us your heaving lily breasts!”
Was I supposed to be impressed
And rush to the see it at its best?

What e'er the answer I did not stay
To be be-cocked another day,
But said goodbye to friend Gaydar
And resolved to follow yonder star,
To wait with patience here outback
For Colin Firth in Stetson hat.

Friday, 3 September 2010

A Gentle Reprieve

First of all, a big thank you to my fans out there. After last week's disturbing revelations a number of concerned readers wrote in to offer emotional support, condolence and the services of their utterly-gorgeous-yet-strangely-single gay friends. Well, actually, that's a total lie. None of you bastards did anything of the sort, but I live in hope. The usual post box address please.

I can, however, offer some solace for those who felt a pang at my predicament. For although I've yet to reset the clock, this week I was able to dull its tick and kill its tock (self-congratulatory note to self; I love the subliminal spoonerisms HW. You are so wonderfully clever).

For this reprise I have to thank Pushy Yoga Lady. Every Wednesday she takes Straight Best Friend, The Midget Boy and I and yells at us until we have attained zen as Floating Didgeridoo, Kicking Lotus Cat and Unfortunate Curry Stain. Even better we pay her for the pleasure, the idea being that in return we will achieve wonderful posture and a lifetime free from muscular pain. The reality is quite different; all I seem to achieve is a pool of sweat so deep you boil potatoes in it.

This week Pushy Yoga Lady decided that we were going to do a group exercise which required us to pair up with people of similar height. Straight Best Friend and The Midget Boy teamed up instantly, abandoning me to the ruthless vagaries of heightism. None of the ladies wanted to couple up with the creepy guy who looked like he'd been for a swim in his yoga kit, so as the class paired up it became apparent that I was going to be left with Hot Rugby Thug. So annoying.

I paddled my way over to him, with a look of alarm crossing his Neanderthal features, as Pushy Yoga Lady began the exercise.

Pushy Yoga Lady: “Right, we're doing the same routine we did last week but this time we'll do it back-to-back with your partner. The idea is that as you bend and twist - reaching one hand to the ceiling and the other to the floor - you'll touch hands, legs and arse with your partner so that you know you're straight. If you're bent, you'll push your partner over and have to start again.”

HW: Bent as a butcher's hook and lovin' it. Ready when you are, big boy.

I assume the position and dutifully press my hands, legs and arse against his. I am, if nothing else, a thoroughly conscientious student.

Hot Rugby Thug (looking nervously towards the door to check no one is watching): “Oh man, this is so gay.”

HW: “Mmmm hmmm.” Oh sweetheart, you have no idea.

We stretch in tandem while bent over, making a kind of 'x' formation with our arms and legs. It's actually quite difficult, and to my distress I have to press my hips firmly against his to maintain my balance. Imagine, if we fall over we'll have to keep on doing this again and again and again and again and again until we get it right. The idea is thrilling.

Hot Rugby Thug: (Grunting) “Dude, this is quite hard isn't it?”

HW: “Mmmm.” It's not the only hard thing around here, honey. Oh, I crack me up.

Pushy Yoga Lady: “Right, now I want you to really stretch. Those of you with tight hamstrings, this is going to hurt.”

Hot Rugby Thug: (Wincing) “Great. Gay AND painful.”

HW: “Mmmm hmmm. Imagine that.”

By this stage I'm quite relieved that my excessive sweating is cleverly disguising the drooling, and that I can pass off my clammy palms as normal exertion, rather than the fevered excitement of a man who's recent sexual highlight was an amusingly shaped croissant at Sainsburys.

We master position A and then move on to a more complicated position B, which is similar but involves an alarming straddle technique. I am suddenly fearful my dignity may not survive the session intact, and resort to imagining Obama losing the 2008 presidential election to save the situation. It works every time.

A few minutes later we complete the exercises and go back to our singles work, accompanied by grins from Straight Best Friend and The Midget Boy. I am spiritually up-lifted, physically rejuvenated and feeling absolutely fucking filthy. It's about bloody time.