Welcome to my world

As first seen on www.the-h.blogspot.com. Kind thanks to H for her support and instant access to her far-from-stable fan base.


Right, here are the rules. While I am in charge nothing of significance will be discussed. There will be no considering the Greatest Moments in Post-Colonial Australian Art. No debating the merits of Trotsky VS Rowling. No swapping recipes for eggnog. No, here we will be interested in one question, and one question only; how do you meet Mr Right when you're, well, a Mr Right too?

My particular problem is that I've been given a shining pewter set of 19th century morals by my parents, which doesn't sit well with the quick-handjob-in-a-public-toilet lifestyle you inherit when you come out. It leaves a bitter taste in one's mouth, as it were. No, rather than date someone who is attempting to channel Kylie I want to be with a man who is simple, honest, and has a jaw to cut rocks on. Think Darcy having a quick snog with Bingley out the back of the stables.

This poses a few problems. The options for meeting gay Mr Right are limited, and can be summarised as follows:

1. "Ooh, you're A Gay! I know a Gay! You'll be perfect for one another." Yes, and I know another hysterical horse-faced twat - happy to introduce you.
2. Having someone rip your shirt off on the dance floor: this is the homo equivalent of telling someone they have nice eyes.
3. The Internet, where one can meet lots of men who are 9-12 inches tall.
4. Gay Day at London Zoo: to be fair I didn't actually meet any men at this one but there was some very suggestive eye contact going on at the penguin enclosure.

Over the years I've exhausted items 1-4, so on New Year's Eve this year I decided that 2007 is The Year When Things Will Happen ("2006: The Year of Change" and "2005: The Time Is Now" don't count). I decided to seize life by the balls and throw myself into a room full of men looking for love, lifelong commitment and long walks on the beach. That's right, I decided to attend a Gay Singles Night.

I arrive at the bar a tasteful 15 mins late, and am met by a man so immaculate he looks like an animated Ken doll. I am vaguely attracted to him until I recall that a naked Ken is the anatomical equal of Barbie. No fun there. Ken escorts me in and introduces me to the first man we cross paths with, who, while no great beauty, is Visually Acceptable.

HW: "Sooo, tell me a bit about yourself." [HW that was pitiful. We should just leave now].
VA: "Well, I'm a Kurd." [Kurd. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. C'mon HW you know this. You read the bloody Guardian every day you liberal tosser. Where are Kurds from?]
HW: "Sooo, how long ago did you leave... ummm.... Kurd...ish...tan?"
VA: "I think you mean Iraq." [Fuck]. "When I was ten."
HW: "Oh. And what do you do now?".
VA: "I'm a dentist doing my doctorate in diseases of the mouth." [Wow. This guy really knows how to sell himself].
HW: "How fascinating. So what does that entail?" [Why why why do I even need to ask?]
VA: "Mostly the removal of rotten or decomposing tissue for analysis." [And I suddenly have no desire to kiss you. Abort. Abort].
HW: "Great. So I'm going to bar. Want anything? No? Okay."

Emboldened by a double G+T I return to the battlefield, determined this time to choose my own destiny. Ah, they look nice, I'll sit with them.

HW: "Mind if I join you?"
Annoying Fag Hag: "Sure." [Why are you talking to me? Why are you here? Shoo vile woman. I am clearly interested in your Hot Mediterranean friend].
HM: "Hi."
HW: "Hi. You've got a great shirt. Where'd you get it?" [Nice. Complimentary. Opens the conversation. Keep this up boy and you'll be getting some sweet lurvin' tonight].
HM: "My mother give to me before I leave Greece. Everything too expensive in London. Shirts too expensive. I work in bakery. I save money, come here tonight."
[Oh god, I've exposed the terrible shame of his extreme poverty. How awkward... and disappointing. No romantic weekend getaways to National Trust castles on the back of a few baguettes. Still, focus on the positive HW. Lovely eyes. Lovely arms. Move the topic on].
HW: "Sooo, what do like most about Greece?" [Am conversational god].
HM: "The Olympics."
Annoying Fag Hag: "Me too." [Be gone annoying fly].
HW: "That 's interesting. They're a great Greek achievement."
HM: "But better in old days, when men would run nude." [I'm sorry?] "I would like see you run nude. I bet you really swing, yes?" [Oh god, let the image go away].
HW: "So I'm going to the bar. Want anything? No? Okay."

After several more G+Ts and a conversation with a Polish labourer and an Albanian journalist, I am left wondering why I paid five English pounds to attend the AGM of the Eastern Bloc Nostalgia Club. Where the fuck are all the white, middle class wankers with foppish hair who I can talk to about Keats and Constable? What happened to Our Green and Pleasant Land? And how many G+Ts does it take to turn a gay lefty into a Daily Mail bigot?

I depart, and immediately call H for assistance. As always, she sees straight to the heart of the matter. Apparently my fatal flaw was in not paying enough money to meet other men. I explain that my mother would not approve of such behaviour, and besides, gross. But she clarifies: if I pay more it acts as a natural genetic filter, like cream rising to the top of milk. I need to go to a more expensive event. I like her logic.

One lonely internet session and £25 later I am booked in to go Speed Dating. Speed Dating, the love-divining tool of the time-poor-cash-rich, where I hope to meet another gay man who only thinks of Speed Dating when love tools are mentioned. Mark Darcy would understand.