The things I do for Love.
I’d not been having too much luck of late finding Mr Right. After trying the Singles Night, Speed Dating and writing “Will Do Anything To Form Meaningful Relationship With Man Preferably Resulting In Stable Family Unit Of Two Or Three Children Not Particularly Fussy” on my forehead in Soho, I was all out of ideas. (Yes, I have a big forehead. Let’s move on).
Fortunately, just when my need was greatest, I happened to bump into an Old Flame near work. This was obviously the Hand of God, and had nothing to do with the modified GPS prison microchip I sew under the skin of all my exes. Nothing at all.
Over lunch I mentioned where I now live, and he asked if I’d been to the “White Swan” yet. Turns out that this is the pub at the end of my street with the rainbow flag hanging limply out the front that is NEVER open. This didn’t ever particularly surprise me, as our part of east London has a preeeeetty strong Muslim community. Gay pub. Muslim community. Men holding hands. Men without hands. Men kissing men. Big burning hole where the pub was.
What did surprise me, however, is that it opens every night of the week. As The Old Flame explained, it opens at 9pm and closes at 3am, thereby cleverly avoiding any social unpleasantness and also ensuring the very highest calibre of clientele. And best of all [pause for dramatic effect], every Wednesday [hold eye contact], without fail [tremble with anticipation], they hold an Amateur Gay Strip Night.
The Hand of God had thrown me a lifeline. I knew where Mr Right was hiding.
Monday, 2 July 2007
Sunday, 24 June 2007
My Favourite Things
This week I met a rather strange fellow at a party. He was introduced to me by a friend who fell for Gay Misconception No.1; all gay people will get along swimmingly and instantly want to sleep with each other. While there may be some circumstantial evidence to support this point of view, it is most certainly not the case when one of them is a depressive psychotic with a habit of spitting his sibilants. Please note, not me.
For all his difficulties with bodily fluid retention, the Depressive was an interesting case study. There’s a reason we’re referred to as ‘gay’; it fits. “Ooh, did you know, our Kenny’s come out?! Y’know, the dramatic prancing one who wears the frilly pink panties? Yes, who’d’ve guessed; he’s a Morose!” Doesn't quite work does it?
By contrast, the Depressive was pretty pissed off about his lot. If he could’ve believed in some higher power without also being given a one-way taxi ride to Hell, I’m sure he would’ve given God an earful. Or Buddha. Or... And I’m stopping now.
The negative energy of the experience grated, so to redress the cosmic balance I’ve decided to spread some positive love. And you, my lucky readers, are the conduit through which my love flows. Savour that image, and then read on to learn why…
It’s Great To Be Gay
1. Relationships: With two men, these are a piece of piss. There's none of this ‘Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus’ bollocks. No sireeee, it's just two Martians getting down and jiggy with some green-slimed, one-eyed, E.T. lurvin'.
“You like sci-fi action movies where Hugh Grant is ripped to pieces by marauding zombies and then fed to the Giant Ant Queen? Hey! So do I!”
“You'd like to do some destructive DIY this weekend involving big drills, lots of noise and dust throughout the house? What, instead of shopping for strappy shoes? Awww, sweetheart.”
“You fall asleep 17 seconds after sex? Fourteen for me.”
2. Lifestyle: The genetic quirk that causes men to like men seems to lie next to the triggers for good fashion sense, conversational eloquence, intelligence and tight buns. Read ‘em and weep ladies.
3. Toilets: We’ve all been here. You’re out with your partner at a musical/play/concert/Star Trek Convention, it’s time to go home but it’s a long journey so you both decide to pop into the loo before you leave. Unfortunately, by the time the XX-chromosomers among us are done, the queue for the carpark has snaked its way to Helsinki and back and you’re truly fucked. Oh look! Guess who’s at the front of that queue? Go XY!
4. Male changing rooms: My favourite. At some point in the history of sexual repression, some ugly monk decided that it was indecent for men and women to see each other's nudey bits in public, and voila! the same-sex changing room was born.
This system works wonderfully for stopping dirty fat Victorians from leering at the exposed ankles of young ladies, but rather comes unstuck for gay men. In fact, it has rather the opposite effect, creating the kind of show one would normally pay good money for… ahem, theoretically. For the women out there, it's a bit like donning a fake beard and being allowed to run around hugging the English rugby team at full time. For the fellas, well, it's a bit like being let into the Ladies changing room.
And before I sign off, I just need to slag off Julie Andrews. All this talk of ‘My Favourite Things’ has reminded me of how disgustingly saccharine that song is. Bright copper kettles? Schnitzel with noodles? Please. The girl wasn’t aiming nearly high enough. If we’d had a bit more focus and a little less Goody Two-Shoes action she might’ve got the Captain’s money and ditched the kids at boarding school. Feel free to sing along.
Twenty-four billion in Microsoft assets,
Daniel Craig’s torso in glistening wet spandex,
Flying to New York for breakfast with Sting,
These are a few of my favourite things.
Cheating at poker and stealing from babies,
Imagining Paris in jail with the ladies,
Angolese diamonds and hip-hoppa bling,
These are a few of my favourite things.
Pool boys and firemen and Chippendale waiters,
Darcy and Heathcliff in nothing but gaiters,
Craig in brown paper all tied up with string,
These are a few of my favourite things.
When my hair’s flat,
When my bum’s fat,
When I’m feeling sad,
I simply remember my favourite things,
And then I don’t feel so bad.
For all his difficulties with bodily fluid retention, the Depressive was an interesting case study. There’s a reason we’re referred to as ‘gay’; it fits. “Ooh, did you know, our Kenny’s come out?! Y’know, the dramatic prancing one who wears the frilly pink panties? Yes, who’d’ve guessed; he’s a Morose!” Doesn't quite work does it?
By contrast, the Depressive was pretty pissed off about his lot. If he could’ve believed in some higher power without also being given a one-way taxi ride to Hell, I’m sure he would’ve given God an earful. Or Buddha. Or... And I’m stopping now.
The negative energy of the experience grated, so to redress the cosmic balance I’ve decided to spread some positive love. And you, my lucky readers, are the conduit through which my love flows. Savour that image, and then read on to learn why…
It’s Great To Be Gay
1. Relationships: With two men, these are a piece of piss. There's none of this ‘Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus’ bollocks. No sireeee, it's just two Martians getting down and jiggy with some green-slimed, one-eyed, E.T. lurvin'.
“You like sci-fi action movies where Hugh Grant is ripped to pieces by marauding zombies and then fed to the Giant Ant Queen? Hey! So do I!”
“You'd like to do some destructive DIY this weekend involving big drills, lots of noise and dust throughout the house? What, instead of shopping for strappy shoes? Awww, sweetheart.”
“You fall asleep 17 seconds after sex? Fourteen for me.”
2. Lifestyle: The genetic quirk that causes men to like men seems to lie next to the triggers for good fashion sense, conversational eloquence, intelligence and tight buns. Read ‘em and weep ladies.
3. Toilets: We’ve all been here. You’re out with your partner at a musical/play/concert/Star Trek Convention, it’s time to go home but it’s a long journey so you both decide to pop into the loo before you leave. Unfortunately, by the time the XX-chromosomers among us are done, the queue for the carpark has snaked its way to Helsinki and back and you’re truly fucked. Oh look! Guess who’s at the front of that queue? Go XY!
4. Male changing rooms: My favourite. At some point in the history of sexual repression, some ugly monk decided that it was indecent for men and women to see each other's nudey bits in public, and voila! the same-sex changing room was born.
This system works wonderfully for stopping dirty fat Victorians from leering at the exposed ankles of young ladies, but rather comes unstuck for gay men. In fact, it has rather the opposite effect, creating the kind of show one would normally pay good money for… ahem, theoretically. For the women out there, it's a bit like donning a fake beard and being allowed to run around hugging the English rugby team at full time. For the fellas, well, it's a bit like being let into the Ladies changing room.
And before I sign off, I just need to slag off Julie Andrews. All this talk of ‘My Favourite Things’ has reminded me of how disgustingly saccharine that song is. Bright copper kettles? Schnitzel with noodles? Please. The girl wasn’t aiming nearly high enough. If we’d had a bit more focus and a little less Goody Two-Shoes action she might’ve got the Captain’s money and ditched the kids at boarding school. Feel free to sing along.
Twenty-four billion in Microsoft assets,
Daniel Craig’s torso in glistening wet spandex,
Flying to New York for breakfast with Sting,
These are a few of my favourite things.
Cheating at poker and stealing from babies,
Imagining Paris in jail with the ladies,
Angolese diamonds and hip-hoppa bling,
These are a few of my favourite things.
Pool boys and firemen and Chippendale waiters,
Darcy and Heathcliff in nothing but gaiters,
Craig in brown paper all tied up with string,
These are a few of my favourite things.
When my hair’s flat,
When my bum’s fat,
When I’m feeling sad,
I simply remember my favourite things,
And then I don’t feel so bad.
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