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.

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.

Of Droughts and Flooding Rains

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of rugged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.

Dorothy MacKellar (1904)

A most dreadful thing happened this week. A truly horrifying, cover-your-mouth-to-contain-the-rising-bile event. It wasn't that a kitten died in my toilet, nor that I confused my hair product with my facial cream. No, much worse than these; I realised that it has been over a year since I last got laid.

That's right. Over. A. Year. 365 nights alone. 31536000 passionless seconds. One trip around the sun without so much as a fumble in the dark to pass the time.

Now many of you – ladies, I'm talking to you here – may not think that this is such a long time. How sweet, you gush, that he should wait with patience and quietude, savouring his celibacy like an overripe plum bursting with summer juices. Inco-fucking-rrect. Not only is this state of affairs messing with my similes, what you also fail to realise is that Time Without Sex for a gay man has the same multiplication factor as dog years. With this in mind I have actually been without rompy pompy for seven years, from the ages of 30 to 37. Or as The Sister once delicately put it, “I've been without a root for so long my viginity's grown back.” Noice.

To explain how this situation came about, we need a bit of Exposition. If I were to indulge my inner geek and write in sonata form I'd also need some Development and Recapitulation, preferably with the latter occurring into the toned arms of a nude hottie... mmm, naked Recapitulation....

Apologies. I digress.

Right. Exposition. I moved to the West Country 12 months ago to work on a product design business with The Midget Boy and Straight Best Friend. We got a house together in a village so small it only has one street, and there is a sign on the church noticeboard that says “Found in village – one horse. If owner please call number below.” I kid you not. We have three chickens, a brown labrador, an ancient black cat and a stream of elderly dependents who pop around bearing marrows when we are trying to work. Straight Best Friend hisses, throws tea in their faces and tells them to fuck off, but they giggle good-naturedly at the antics of youth and come back the next day with more oversized garden produce.

There are a variety of issues inherent in this situation.

Problem no. 1: Working from home. This provides no opportunities for meeting new people, such as through casual spillages on to the cute chap who sits next to the water cooler. Not now that The Midget Boy has started wearing an anorak indoors anyway.

Problem no. 2: Bath. My nearest city only has one gay bar. Apparently the only homos in town are wealthy retirees who sit at home counting their serfs, or 18 year old drama students. The gay bar caters to the latter, all of whom appear to all be auditioning for the title role in “Gollum: Queen of Mordor.” It is all most distressing.

Problem no. 3: I am returning to live in Australia at the end of this year. Like Ms MacKellar I too love a sunburnt country, and more to the point I miss my family. Knowing you are about to uproot your life and dump it on a big red rock on the other side of the globe kinda takes the sheen off the desire to go out and find Mr Right.

However, like any well-developed essay this neatly segues us to the true horror of my situation. For when I return to OZ I shall be working like a dog to get a little design project off the ground, and to finance this I shall be moving back in with my parents. For up to 18 months.

If we make the wild assumption that I won't be getting any while living in a rural town famed for its annual Wool Expo, while sleeping in a bedroom next to my parent's, then we arrive at the following numerical horrorshow:

Elapsed Time Without Shag: 12 months

Remaining Shag-Free Time In The UK Living In An Episode Of The Good Life: 6 months

Proposed Time Living Celibate Under Close Parental Scrutiny: 18 months

Total Time Without Shag: 3 years.

Take into account the Gay Man's Adjustment factor and I shall be celibate for the years from 30 to 51.

Truly this is the kind of drought Dorothy was writing about. I just hope the flooding rains come while the mountain ranges are still rugged, rather than sporting ear hair and a paunch.

You jeans like fit good sir?

Today I tried to buy jeans. Fuck knows why I bothered, but I tried. It is no overstatement to say that jeans and I are a modern reinvention of the Capulets and Montagues ; the irreconcilable forces of human flesh and sweatshop denim trapped in an eternal war across the stars, yet destined to produce one breathless, harmonious union that winks out of existence almost as soon as it is born. Although with less hanging out around the fish tank with Leonardo.

This perfect union is still clinging on for dear life around my shapely buttocks. Purchased almost five years ago these jeans hug, flare, slip and ride my legs in a delightfully indecent manner. Such is their power that wearing them I feel I could conjugate the above verbs into any context with any man who takes my fancy, and I’m not just talking about Advanced Level Grammar classes here people. This is saucy stuff.

Sadly however, having seen me through thick and thin these jeans are now mostly just experiencing the thin. Predominantly around the sculpted derriere area. Indeed, the area classified as “completely fucking worn through– I can see your arse flapping out” by Straight Best Friend has spread in recent weeks from crotch to hip pocket, fuelling a fear that my Suppressed Homo is attempting to break free via the medium of home-made chaps. In an attempt to avoid this horror and in acknowledgement that my relationship with torn trousers is a little relaxed, I ventured out to buy a new pair.

I will not bore you with the details of my inability to find a suitable repurchase. Suffice to say it was a complete fucking car-crash of a day and the manager of GAP will require reconstructive surgery. Upon my return home Design Partner listened patiently to my woes, made a sad puppy-dog face, and announced that the solution was obvious; we needed to start an online custom-made jeans company! Of course! Sometimes I wonder how so much entrepreneurial genius fits into such a travel-ready package.

A quick internet search later and we had learned two things. 1) There were already plenty of companies like this catering for Americans who had passed beyond the “Elasticated Waistbands = Bad” threshold back when they ate the family dog in ‘98, and 2) there was only one company in the UK, a certain “Jean Machine”. With two denim-clad ladies trapped in a wind tunnel on their homepage we could see they had the custom-made jean business sewn up in contrasting stitch detailing, so we gave up on the business plan and settled in to order me my Perfect Jeans.

Step One: choose your style. No worries here, although Design Partner was slightly disconcerted that there were 11 styles on offer yet only eight images. Also one picture appeared to be of a Levi jean. Hmmm. Moving swiftly on.

Step Two: choose your material. Ah this we can do. Real-posh-looking-yet-remarkably-cheap-dark-denim please. We is on a budget here. Sadly that particular choice was not available so we went for not-quite-as-Eurovision-nasty-looking-as-the-others blue.

Step Three: take your measurements. We started with my waist, which I am pleased to say has been a gentlemanly 32 inches since puberty. The tape measure, however, seemed to indicate an actual size of 36 inches, which earned Design Partner a thorough beating for his clumsiness. 36 inches indeed. Astonishingly, repeat measurements confirmed that thirty-six was indeed correct. It seems the fashion industry doesn’t understand the use of units of distance as a measure of say, actual distance, but rather as a series of funny shapes to make that dull patch on the inside of the waistband look pretty. Genius. I tip my hat to them.

Next, Design Partner had to measure my ‘seat’, defined as the fattest part of your arse. It’s lucky he doesn’t resemble a woollen Adonis put through the hot cycle one too many times, or I might have found the whole whipping a tape around my buttocks in my pants a tad erotic. As it was there was a tense moment when he suggested that the measuring tape shouldn’t be cutting valleys into my derriere, and I snapped back that I most certainly did not have a 39-inch arse so some cutting was inevitable, but we worked through it.

I also had to specify whether I wanted a ‘custom’, ‘normal’, ‘low waist’ or ‘high waist’ design. This was to define where the jeans were to sit on my waist using the belly button as a convenient navigational aid. Thus ‘normal’ was defined as “when you wear your jeans on the belly button.” ‘Low waist’ was “two inches below the belly button.” Seriously? A quick check revealed that Design Partner’s jeans sat three inches below his umbilicus, and mine a heady five inches below. I was practically wearing them as socks. Most alarmingly of all, one could order the “high waist” design for those above-the-naval statement pieces. Ideal for incontinence pads and first dates.

Finally we had to measure something called the ‘front rise.’ Neither of us knew what this was so we clicked on the helpful illustrative jpeg. Up popped this beauty.

Design Partner suddenly looked a bit flushed. I worried whether our relationship could survive him holding the tape measure thusly. Both of us were glad the young lady had chosen to wear her jeans for the demonstration, for fear of losing her tape.

And then, just as suddenly as we had begun we were at the checkout! A few more clicks and denim paradise would be mine! While I warmed up the credit card Design Partner went off to find some online reviews from other satisfied “Jean Machine” customers. He soon found this gem:

I sent Jean Machine £127 and my favourite jeans to make me two new pairs. This was eight weeks ago, I haven’t heard from them since and they won’t reply to my emails! Help!

Ah. That’s a little unfortunate. Design Partner followed this up with a call to their helpline which was, ahem, disconnected. Dreams. Floor. Shattered.

So I’m back to square one. My favourite jeans are threatening to subdivide into cropped shorts and leg-warmers, and I have no backup solution. Things are looking bleak.

On the plus side however, what I do have from this little journey is a selection of photos sent in by satisfied customers of makeyourownjeans.com. When the Day Of Jean Death finally arrives I shall be able to look back at these and console myself with the knowledge that even in my denim, home-made chaps I have got it over this lot. Enjoy.

"Brian, wearing Makeyourownjeans.com's Jeans and Denim Shirt, Jeans with extra length was requested."

I bet it was, the saucy minx.

"Sonja is wearing low rise Jeans made by Makeyourownjeans.com, she has ordered a Brazilian Style Add-On #105."

"Sonja 2."

I do hope Sonja got a discount on her second purchase.

"David is wearing a Skinny Tight tapering fit Pussy Cat Dark Wash jeans with a 7-inch front rise and a heart-shaped back pocket with embroidery. He insisted on a very very skin tight fit."

Oh. Dear. God.

"Chase Metheney."

No Chase. No. Bad boy.

Pants, Trousers, and other cultural misunderstandings

Ladies and Gentlemen, have I a treat in store for you today! Oooh, the excitement! It’s not very often that I introduce a new character to this blog but today we have a corker. Pull back the velvet curtain, swivel the gas lamps and let’s begin.

Today’s personality has always been lurking in the background. As husband to Straight Best Friend he was often to be found tut-tutting as I dragged her out on unseemly nights of drunken debauchery, yet this kind soul was always there to provide healing cups of tea the next day. It was in this capacity of Hot Beverage Deliverer that I knew him for many years, but now that I live near him in Bath he has become a mainstay of my social life. We have manly pints at local pubs, talk about physics and boobs, and go out on unseemly nights of drunken debauchery.

So when we were both abandoned by Best Friend/Wife on New Year’s Eve this year it was perfectly logical that Bearded Bromance and I should spend it together. There was to be no sitting at home alone, drinking vodka from a mug and watching the oven clock count down in a tin foil hat. No, not this year! Instead, we would drink the vodka in a public place using non-ceramic receptacles, and then do what we always did when the lights went down and we got a little tipsy... yes, we would dance! Dance like madmen!

Dancing is Bearded Bromance’s secret talent, his paranormal ability. The result of diabolical genetic experimentation on 8-tracks of The Supremes, he worked for many years for the British military, undermining totalitarian regimes and freeing the oppressed with the transformative power of disco. Now retired, he lives out his days behind the facade of doting father and school handyman, his memory erased and his powers reduced to humming “I Will Survive” while plunging u-bends blocked with the outpourings of seven year olds.

Still, every superhero has his weakness, and Bearded Bromance’s powers can be momentarily reactivated by the liberal application of pink cosmopolitans. Thus it was that New Year’s Eve found us in a rugby pub, dressed in our finest tuxedos, abandoning our mates to Auld Lang Syne downstairs while we pushed aside the buffet tables to create a makeshift dancefloor. The fever was on us, and there was no dance genre that did not quiver in anticipation of our unique interpretation.

Leaping, grooving, sliding, rocking, pirouetting, tangoing, strutting, stomping; we covered all the basics. Then, when these had been exhausted we moved on to wall climbing, table leaping, seafood-platter juggling and mantelpiece grinding. Dancing with Bearded Bromance gives reality to the platitude to “dance like no one is watching.” Unfortunately it also gives weight to the subsequent advise to “love like you’ve never been hurt” for - if you happen to be in the same sweat-pit as us on Halloween when we are dressed as pirates and the cosmopolitans are down - you are certain to get a plastic sword pommel in the eye.

On the occasion of New Year’s, at around 12.38am, I suddenly realised that “Time Warp” would be significantly improved by adding a dramatic straddling-of-the-chair move between jumping to the left and stepping to the right. Chair straddling is an old move from university - the artful curve of the lifted leg honed with years of practise - and one that I was sure would be met with approval. Unfortunately all it was met with was a loud ripping sound and guffaws of laughter from Bearded Bromance, as the fabric of my trousers parted under the strain of my exertions.

Closer inspection by Bromance between sets revealed a four inch rip along the seam of my crotch, and also the knowledge that I had been clever enough to wear black underpants. Praise be to my subconscious! Always helping out when my conscious forgets to bring safety pins! So it was that we continued to dance until 3am, each cartwheel or pole spin being accompanied by a further tearing noise, and each tearing noise by riotous laughter. Indeed, when we finally arrived home and a full examination was possible it became apparent that the steady separation of east and west buttocks had only been stopped by my zipper at the fore and my belt at aft. As I passed my grinning head through the tattered remains of my tuxedo trousers Bearded Bromance and I had to agree; truly this had been an excellent night out.

Yet as I lay in bed that night, waiting for the oblivion of drunken sleep, something nagged at the edges of memory. Some echo of an old life, a shadow struggling to rise to the surface, an oily stain spreading where it had been smothered. As I slipped from consciousness it came to me, spreading its dark wings and sending hope scuttling into the hidden places. Thus was I haunted by the Ghost Of Pant-Ripping Past.

Spring, 2001.

The jacarandas dripped their purple blossoms onto the streets of Sydney as I wielded a can of gold spray paint in the back yard. I was preparing for the University’s 50^th Anniversary Rowing Ball, and this automotive paint was my secret weapon. I had resolved that if one is to attend a Golden Anniversary with the specific intention of picking up a hot homo rower then one must 1) be noticed, 2) be identifiable as a gayer yourself, and 3) look splendid. The obvious solution? To arrive in a gold three-piece suit with gilded shoes and sparkly hair. Such a discreet, unassuming youth.

The ensemble I was now studiously gilding had been picked up from various charity shops across town; a gentleman’s waistcoast here, a silk ‘kerchief there. I had struggled to find an appropriate shirt however, until at the eleventh hour heaven had provided and I had stumbled upon a dazzling lady’s blouse. Unfortunately it was a little short and thus prone to reveal one’s midrift in an alarmingly provocative way, so The Sister had pinned it to my trousers to spare the boys. Thus prepared I stepped out to receive my adoring rowing fans.

The night was not, one might say, an immediate success. The only homo rower present was an ex, and although a loving, kind-hearted and generous man he also was also in possession of a ridiculous surname that “in physical chemistry defines the weak force that acts at a molecular level.” No relationship can survive that literary car crash.

As the night wore on it became clear that although the attractive power of my gilded accoutrements could not be disputed, they were insufficient to make lady-loving rowers throw off their clothes and form an orderly queue. Disappointing. Also the ex was getting increasingly keen, so it was necessary to take evasive action; we bundled into a cab and headed to the nearest club.

My relief was short-lived however. In the chaos of departure I had not only managed to leave my coterie behind but also had scooped up the Improbably Named Ex and his friend. At the club I tried to lose them amongst the dark, gyrating mass of sweaty bodies on the dancefloor but to no avail. The ex moved closer and closer, and in desperation I looked around for an escape. I was greeted by dozens of staring, glinting eyes.

Yikes! Here at least was my attire fully appreciated, if perhaps a little too well. Gulp. I glanced around and noticed a nice Italian fellow who looked like he knew how to al dente his penne properly, so I shimmied over like a string of tinsel.

Al Dente: “Hi.”

HW: “Hi.”

Al Dente [grinding into my personal space]: “I like your outfit, but you must be hot in that jacket. Let me help you out of it.” Oh yes. Those Italians are smooth.

HW: “Thanks.”

Al Dente [groping into my personal space]: “And your waistcoat. Let’s get rid of that.” The man was a veritable clothing tactician.

HW: “Ummm, sure.”

Al Dente [total destruction of personal space]: “And let’s see what’s under this shirt shall we?”

Al’s hands snaked around my waist and with a gentle tug he proceeded to lift my shirt, only to find it had snagged on my belt. He pulled again, a little harder this time, but the shirt stayed firmly in place. With a confused little grunt Al tried a third time, and it was only then that I remembered; my shirt was safety-pinned to my trousers. By my sister. Oh my fucking god, the utter horror of it all.

Rather than admit the hideous truth of the situation I took charge and pulled my shirt up with all my strength. With a tearing noise the blouse came free and safety pins went hurtling off into the darkness, blinding drag queens and exciting the masochists. Al misunderstood my sudden enthusiasm for disrobing and proceeded to get rather heavy-handed, so I backed away and created some space by dancing like a madman.

You see, even without the influence of Bearded Bromance I have always been a fervent dancer, and with the adrenalin of being semi-naked in a pit of snakes I mean gay club I was on fire. I did the cool shoulder groove, the funky foot-crossing thing, and for a grand finale did HW’s patented quick drop-squat move.

And with that my trousers ripped from sun-up to sundown.

Ah. Fuck.

In a heartbeat the reality of my situation came crashing down upon me. I was in a gay club, with no shirt on, in tight golden trousers with my white underpants flashing out. I might as well have worn a huge neon sign saying “Young Man-Flesh Available Here: Slightly Used, Going Cheap”. With the vultures circling I did what any respectable man in flesh and shredded lamé would do; I leaned into Al’s ear and whispered huskily “Do you want to get out of here?” He didn’t need to be asked twice.

Swimming back up through the darkness I returned panting to New Year’s Eve, 2010. The bed was drenched with sweat and the sheets knotted, but I was safe. The Ghost of Pant-Ripping Past had let me go, but not before ensuring I had learnt my lesson. No more for me the dangerous cocktail of buttock-hugging cottons and outrageous dancing. As a reformed man I promised to wear loose slacks or low-riding denim, and only shuffle around the dancefloor when Michael Buble was playing...

Well, until Bearded Bromance and I have our next cosmopolitan, that is.

Making Dead Cow Damn Cool

Before we get underway with today’s narrative I need to bring you up to date on a few changes in my life. These have been profound, for - like a caterpillar emerging from its chrysalis into a new dawn of hope and forgiveness – I have been reborn through the love of God and his sacred Son Jesus Christ.

Oh, hang on. No, wait. So sorry, that was someone else. My mistake. I still love phalli, and crazy Latin plural nouns.

Please proceed.

In June of 2009 – after paying my taxes like a good boy for seven years and sitting a test to ensure I knew how to claim dentistry benefits when I became pregnant at 15 – the British Home Office gave me a shiny new visa. This innocuous little stamp meant that I was no longer tied to any particular employer but could now stay in the country as long as I wanted as an independent citizen. Hurrah! The fools! Now I could implement my plan to 1) become Intergalactic Saviour Of Humanity Through The Medium Of Design and 2) have a very cool nametag.

Step one; quit my life-sapping job! Pah! I laugh at your puny insignificance and irrelevance, Employer of the Past! Step two; leave London and its sordid distractions! Farewell, City of Costly Expenditure and Naughty Liaisons with Magical Barristers; I am on the path of righteousness now! Step three; well, ummm, fanny around a bit overseas and blow some cash. Ahem. Arriving swiftly at step four; move to the West Country with Intimately Proportioned Design Partner! Rent a house! Set up an office! Put a gold bath in the corner, ready to swim in all the money we make! Hazaar! Kazam! Whoopee!

This was the fulfilment of an old dream. Design Partner and I had long talked about setting up a business together, one that would allow us to design, manufacture and distribute our own products under our own brand. I met him through Straight Best Friend many years ago and admired his intelligence, drive and miniaturisation. For like a kinky Japanese sex toy he is a technological tour de force, providing long-lasting performance in a casing a little bit smaller than you’re used to. You don’t need to wash him as much though.

In order to get a house with space for an office Design Partner and I settled in a quaint little village in the West Country. While beautiful the downside of our new home was the impossibility of getting to or from it. Public transport in post-Thatcher England is about as reliable as a bus where Lassie does the steering and Skippy does the brakes, yet I was unwilling to increase my carbon footprint through the purchase of a car and there was no parking in the village for a dirigible.

Instead I settled for a very tiny, beautifully designed scooter. All sweeping lines and cappuccino colourings, he called out to me in his little Taiwanese voice and said “Bai mi! Bai mi mista an’ wi will hav soh mani adwenchaas togeva it will bee laik Audwii Hepburn in Woeman Howiday wen shi goes funni cwazi on a wespa an’ nearwi kills everwi-won! Oh yes bai mi bai mi mista!!.” And although living in the country had already turned me into a Daily Mail bigot I forgave this little asylum seeker and snaffled him up as my own.

Our first autumn together was a beautiful time. On those long, golden days we would zip around the back lanes of England together, my scarf trailing behind us in the breeze, my Italian boots gleaming in the sun. For safety reasons it was necessary for me to buy a baby-soft leather jacket from Liberty’s of London, a jacket so fitted that it pushed my intestinal tract into my chest cavity to create rippling, kidney-shaped pecs. Straight Best Friend said it made me look like The Fonz, but – never good with her 80s trivia - she was obviously thinking that The Fonz drove a sentient talking car and looked shit-hot in ripped denim. The poor dear never was very smart.

So the days slipped by, shortened and became winter. Crisp blue skies, the promise of Christmas and then finally snow! Yes, snow! Unbelievably the UK weather had decided it wouldn’t shit on us with a giant wind-and-rain ball-turd this year but would instead provide the stuff of Christmas cards. From my bedroom window the garden looked like a giant wedding cake, complete with marzipan compost bin and sugar-dusted dead bird.

“Be careful out there today,” cautioned Design Partner as I vaselined myself into my jacket. “It’ll be cold and slippery.” Well duh. Why do people always assume that Australians don’t know how to handle cold weather? We DO have refrigeration you know. I’ve SEEN the inside of a freezer. I’m not an idiot.

I threw open the back door and stepped into the glorious morning. Fuck! It really was cold. Double fuck! The path was ridiculously slippery. I reached the shed intact but my hands were shaking and my saliva was undergoing a change of state. Buggery fuck bollocks. I was going to need more clothes.

Three trips back to the house later I was ready to go. I was now wearing two pairs of gloves, a thermal top, a collared shirt, a woollen jumper, a waterproof and then finally my corseting leather jacket. Suddenly I was less John Travolta in Grease and more the Battlefield Earth years. I was a sausage in a stocking, jelly in a johnny, an old chesterfield bursting out of its seams. I had slipped from sex god to upholstery. Oh the ignominy.

I slithered down the lane to the village road, which – against all expectations – had not been gritted. Honestly, what the fuck do they spend my council taxes on? Books for disabled children from broken homes? Fuck the little shits; my road needs de-icing. I lined the Taiwanese workhorse up, gave the accelerator a confident twist, and … Well, nothing. No motion. Clearly, more power was required. I twisted the accelerator further; nothing. Then further, until finally the back wheel gripped and the pinko scum skidded sideways in something approximating a low-speed biking accident. The traitorous bastard.

Slightly shaken but undeterred, I moved from a perpendicular road position to the more conventional parallel arrangement, lowered my tapered Italian boots to the road surface and set off at 2 mph with a dainty set of outriggers. Hurrah! A triumphant union of engineering and fashion!

And yet… as the village traffic backed up behind me and I was overtaken by a man walking his dog I couldn’t help but feel a certain je ne sais quoi had been lost from my stylish transportation. I had this niggling feeling that if Mr Right looked out from the Rococo study in the west annex of his country seat and happened to see me gliding past that – rather than the love of his life – he might only see some twat with his feet down looking like the Marshmallow Man…

…in a very hot leather jacket.

Da American Boyz

My dear, dear reader. Since you’ve been away so many exciting things have happened in my life. I won’t blame you – I’m sure it’s not selfishness on your part that kept you absent, just thoughtlessness – but I’ll forgive you and tell all about HW’s First Trip To America.

Stop one, New York! New York! Land of yellow cabs, little dogs and bagels. Little dogs in yellow cabs eating bagels! Yellow cabs running over little dogs sandwiched in bagels! How exciting! So many freakshows to see! So little time!

Little time indeed. For although my first trip to New York should have consisted to lazy days in Central Park and endless bereted coffees at MOMA, my boss had other ideas. Yes, I was actually in New York for work, setting up exhibitions to launch our lighting products across the pond. After a few days of this it rapidly became apparent that unless I took action the extent of my American experience was going to be the inside of a SOHO gallery, the morbidly obese man at the hardware store around the corner and a power-drill with a funny-shaped plug.

But hang on. “Staying in New York for work,” I hear you say. “That doesn’t sound too bad. Business class flights, a five-star hotel and all your food and travel expenses paid for.” Well, that was my boss’ experience. Me, I got to fly Economy while he sat up front, wasn’t allowed to claim receipts and got sleep on a variety of Aussie mates’ sofas while he stayed for a week in SOHO’s most exclusive hotel. That’s right; when he heard I had friends in town he asked if I could stay with them to save the company some money, because when you’ve just bought a multi-million pound house in central London you’ve got to watch the pennies. Well, watch someone else’s pennies anyway.

Armed with my indignation I negotiated two days of paid leave and resolved to get as far away as possible. That way when one of the exhibition lights caught fire and the gallery burned and south Manhattan was apocalyptically razed I could calmly answer the phone and say “Yes, hello? Oh, that sounds awful. Hmmm. I see. Look, I’d love to come back and help pick up charred bits of your completely irrelevant lighting product but the beach here is just lovely, and by the time I get back my martini will be warm, and Emmanuel says it’s a waste not to use up the whole bottle of massage oil now we’ve opened it. Oh, and you’re a cunt who’s too tight to pay my travel expenses. Bye now! Mwah.”

Fortunately I had a perfect getaway option in the form of my hot Yankee Banker. When not in London trawling the bars for innocent youths to debase he worked in Washington D.C. for a big bank, doing the kind of banking stuff that isn’t a teller and so I will never understand. We hadn’t seen each other for over a year but he was delighted at the idea of a visit, so I packed my bags and leapt on the first train out of town.

On the journey I consulted my copy of The Big Book of Gay Etiquette: Just Because It’s There Doesn’t Mean You Should Touch It for a few tips, and learnt that:

… when visiting or staying with an old flame timing is everything. If the invitation is for a hour or less it can be assumed that a cup of tea or coffee is expected, possibly with a side platter of freshly baked scones. If the invitation is for anything more than an hour – say, up to a week – then etiquette necessitates engaging in Unmentionable Activities on a scale appropriate to the quality of the accommodation provided. This timing distinction is critical. Adherence to it will avoid the embarrassment of arriving with a bottle of soymilk when prophylactics would have been more appropriate.

At the time I was still dating Coat Contents and Yankee Banker was loved up with a new fella, so I wasn’t sure The Big Book of Gay Etiquette’s advice of getting jolly with the lolly was appropriate. I skimmed through its section on relationship etiquette but since I didn’t need to know “How to keep his toy soldier at attention when the Major General has left” or “Riding Aladdin’s rug: Three wishes to get the magic back now the lamp is tarnished” it just confused me more. Eventually I fell back my mother's teachings and decided that arriving bearing leather chaps and a big grin would be indelicate. I settled for hydrangeas instead.

Arriving at Yankee Banker’s apartment late in the afternoon, I stood gazing fixedly at the jumble of numbers trying to remember which one I should buzz. Gazing fixedly only works if you allow your mouth to drop open too, and maximum cognition is only achieved if you scratch your nuts to get the brain working. I was thus engaged when a cheery voice called out “Hi! You must be HW!”

I turned to see a disarmingly handsome man grinning at me, decked out in the coolest glasses I have ever seen. I swallowed the fly I’d caught and turned my nut-scratching into a casual running of the hand through the hair while he introduced himself as Yankee Banker’s beau. The horror! I’d been replaced with someone better looking, with better glasses and – as it transpired – a better job. Oh look at me! I work for a senator in Obama’s administration, toiling to avert climate change and secure the future for our children and their pet dolphins. Yeah well, I bury hamsters in dirt and knock their heads off with golf clubs, you optically superior prat.

Yankee Banker came to the rescue with a large glass of something pink and cold, ducking my accusing glare. Honestly. How hard would it have been for him to pay a homeless man to bring his urine-stained, cardboard box hovel up to the apartment for two days, and then introduce him as his boyfriend? He could’ve even let the homeless man’s dog shit in the bathroom sink and left it there for authenticity. I wouldn’t have cared; I’d just have washed my hands around it. Anything would have been preferable to knowing I’d been upgraded, or even that such a thing was possible.

The next day things went from bad to worse. Captain Planet was so nice he made time in his busy schedule to give me a backstage tour of Capitol Hill, starting at the senate office where he worked. Ugh, hot and considerate; what a creep. I arrived to find a long queue of school brats blocking the entrance so I settled in to wait, only for Captain Planet to appear and VIP me in. Humph. Quite cool. Still a prat.

We whizzed through the marbled Senate offices and then downstairs to a reception area where a hapless maid greeted us. Captain Planet turned the charm onto full beam and explained to the bedazzled lass that although it wasn't protocol he had a meeting with Mr W in room 312 but had forgotten to book it and was there any chance it was free for us to use and my goodness, he liked her hair today. She wilted. I was impressed. Prat though. Focus on the prat.

Through a security pat-down and along a white shiny tunnel, and I was only now wondering where the fuck we were going. Why were we in the basement and not arriving by car convoy to a brass band? Where was Obama, and why hadn’t he bought me a puppy yet? Why was there a set of train tracks up ahead? And here, a small 8-car train up with no driver? What was this, some kind of fucking James Bond movie?

And actually yes, yes it was. We stepped off the miniature platform into the leading carriage, the doors automatically closed and we were off, whisked from the Senate administrative buildings into the heart of Capitol Hill on a secret underground train. I kid you not. It was the coolest fucking thing I have ever seen. Suddenly I was Dr Evil shuttling towards my underground lair, and Captain Planet my diabolical accomplice Mini Me. Although he resented me stroking his head in that fashion.

The rest of the Capitol Hill tour passed in a blur of history and dark corridors. As we left through the main entrance into the glorious sunshine Captain Planet pointed to the “Room 312” tag I had been wearing since the train. Whereas once it was white it was now navy blue, the numerals nearly impossible to read. “It self-destructed in the sunlight to prevent re-entry,” he explained.

I accepted defeat. This man was too brilliant not to love, with his spectacles and his secret spyware and his cute ass. The Yankee Banker was a fortunate man, and as I watched them over dinner that night I hoped they’d be together so long they'd have a chance to share dentures as well as Prada sunglasses. The lucky bastards.

A Fairy's Tale

Hi kids. I’m back.

I had once thought that this would be my last entry. One final chapter to neatly wrap up my story of loveless questing for Mr Right, a happily-ever-after ending to validate all the drunken fumblings, public nudity and revealing the depths of my homosexual depravity to my immediate family. Uncle Robert, if you’re out there, this one’s for you.

No, there will be no fairytale endings in this blog. Prince Charming will not be galloping out of the sunset in a lacy shirt astride his bucking stallion, because quite frankly that is fucking dull. Unless it’s “Prince Charming Rides His Bucking Stallion III” in HD surround sound, which is anything by dull.

Instead I proffer a tale of a budding young romance set amidst the delicate blossoms of a London spring, a romance flush with hope for a new world of candlelit dinners and joint bank accounts, a romance that I fucked up by thinking “ooooh, if I can just make this work out it would make a brilliant ending to my blog.”

It all started one fine March morning as I stood in the Salad Man’s queue, waiting for my usual bucket of health for lunch. For £2.70 the Salad Man will give you a tub of olives, couscous, carrots, feta, sun-dried tomatoes and chickpeas so big it has developed sentient life. To put that in perspective, £2.70 in London will usually buy you a postcard of Lady Di and a punch in the face, so the Salad Man was always busy.

On this particular occasion none of my work colleagues had come with me so I was whiling away the queue time with my favourite hobby; Perving On The Unsuspecting. Pickings were slim that Friday, and after the horrorshow of mentally undressing a man who turned out to be seventy I settled for admiring the tailored coat of the man two ahead of me.

What a lovely subtle pattern. Such a clever collar trim. Selfridges? No, Liberty’s surely. A great cut. Fits perfectly over those broad shoulders. Excellent tailoring in the body too; the shape emphasises that toned, muscular chest and waist. Oh, he’s turning his head into profile, and I say! that ain’t bad either. Hmmmm, forget the salad; break off a chunk of the Coat Contents for daddy.

Such was the depth of my anorak admiration that I wasn’t even put off when he opened his mouth and addressed one of the Salad Girls in the dulcet tones of America. Rather, I waited until it was my turn to be served and – under the pretext of confirming that yes, I was having the same salad I have had every single day since 2006 – I nipped ahead and planted myself beside Coat Contents. I took a deep breath and prepared to deliver the best opening line since "if I could rearrange the alphabet I would put U and I together."

HW: “My god, are you having the LARGE salad box? That’s an epic eat. Respect.” Yes, I actually said ‘respect’. I am Tony Blair circa 2004.

Coat Contents: “Yep, I get it most days. I love this salad bar.” Amazingly, speaking back.

HW: “Me too, although I sometimes find it a bit repetitive so I like to spice mine up with some smoked haddock back at the office.” Oh yes, take notes dating underlings. There’s nothing like imagining someone with a smelly, oily North Sea fish stuffed into their gob to crank up the sexual frisson.

And so it continued. Coat Contents took his salad and waited for me to get mine, and then we stood around awkwardly while he established that yes, I worked locally and yes, I also ate salmon, skate, cod, trout, barramundi and perch. Strangely he seemed unwilling to end this most educational of marine conversations. I weighed this against an estimation of the damage his clenched homophobic fist could do to my pretty-boy face, steadied myself on the vat of potato salad and asked for his phone number.

Coat Content’s face broadened into a fantastic grin. He reached into his wallet and pullet out his business card. I did the same and we exchanged like some dreadful 20th century cliché. If only we’d done this 200 years earlier, we’d have had servants in wigs to carry our monogrammed cards to each other on silver trays and lend the moment an air of majesty. As it was I discretely wiped the humus off mine and hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Relief at having my teeth intact mingled with a sudden sense of achievement. I had just successfully hit on a cute man in a well-lit public place, without the assistance of alcohol, Straight Best Friend or Kylie! Truly I was a dating god.

A couple of risqué dates later and I had myself a bone fide boyfriend, and what a corker he was. While I nodded liked a labrador he’d describe Virginia Wolfe’s critical essays. While I gazed adoringly at his porno ‘tash he’d sketch arguments outlining Mozart’s compositional superiority. And while he read The Economist over breakfast I’d sit and think “when we get married this is what our breakfasts will be like every single day for the next seventy years until finally we die like Romeo and Juliet but horribly wasted and decrepit clutching each other in an embrace of enduring love.”

Sure there were difficulties. Sleeping together on those warm spring evenings, I’d lie awake and think “OK HW, just breath, it’s OK, don’t stress about this… It’s OK if he wants to sleep underneath a sub-arctic doona while the windows are closed in this heat. It’s OK that he has a fan running all night on high, it’s electric motor powered by coal-fired stations that are pumping out CO2 while the planet burns. No no, it’s OK because he LIKES THE SOOTHING WHIRR it makes. Breathe. Breathe the refreshing cooling air.”

But whatever issues I had with Coat Contents I always forgave him because knock me sideways to Christmas if the boy couldn’t actually kiss. Over the past seven years of having British men fondle my tonsils, plunge my tongue and suck out my oesophagus I’d forgotten how a real kiss is undertaken. Not with the express aim of eating your head, but with gentleness, passion and a tic tac.

Sadly, the good times were doomed not to last. After three months Coat Contents decided that things weren’t working out for him, and threw my heart into the trash alongside the articles on climate change I’d discretely cut out and left on his pillow. Yes, that’s right, imagine the horror; he couldn’t even be bothered to recycle. My heart went straight to landfill. That’s Americans for you.

Still, there are some pearls of wisdom in this cautionary tale. Number one, I learnt that years of internet dating, set-ups, one-night-stands, drunken touch-ups and dirty eye contacting had so reduced my self-respect that I could now happily hit on strangers in the glare of the noonday sun. Brilliant. Number two, I learnt that not all men who frequent salad bars are tofu-munching homosexuals, but if you’re lucky they might be. And thirdly I learnt that happily ever afters are the remit of dwarves, men in tights and stepmothers in drag, and thus have no place in any self-respecting gay man’s life.

Until the next time of course.

Adieu, adieu, to yeu and yeu and yeu

Welcome, welcome one and all! We come together today to celebrate a great pillar of our community and to mourn their passing from my life. Never sought yet never failing to provide succour, never critical yet always a bastion of integrity, my life has been changed forever and for that I will always be grateful.

So please, take a seat. Sit back; relax. And enjoy the Big Guardian Newspaper Love-In.

Like all the best lovers, the Guardian didn’t force herself upon me but slipped into my life unnoticed (NB a contextual clarification from the author: while no female has ever managed to slip him anything unnoticed – that being gross and very yucky – the author feels that the personification of the Guardian lends itself to an intellectually ruthless and emotionally detached 40-something woman, who secretly wears a tie-dyed bra and likes to give big hugs when no one is watching). Our liaison started when a work colleague informed me that free copies of that day’s paper were available from the Guardian office foyer and – being a consummate tightarse – I couldn’t resist.

Before I realised it the Guardian had become part of my daily routine. Where once I would hiss and spit at my flatmates over breakfast, I now avoided the need for human interaction by reading yesterday’s edition. At the office I would put the coffee on before nipping out to get that day’s copy, a snatched moment of indulgence before the day began. And at lunch I would pore over the crossword with my workmate in the park, always desperate to finish it in a shorter time than That Smart Bitch H. I never did by the way. I swear she has the OED chipped into her head (as in ‘microchipped’, not a bit taken out with the OED shoved into the bloody pulp of a hole, which would be more personally satisfying).

Then there were the perks of living next to a building full of warm-and-fuzzies. Some mornings I’d chat to the lady with the baby seat who chained her bike outside our office, and her friendliness made me feel like London wasn’t such a seventh circle shithole of bubbling putrescence. When my boss refused to pay for paper recycling collection I first had a little cry for the Amazon, then asked the nice security guard at the Guardian if I could lob my paper into their bins. “Of course mate! Be my guest.” And whenever they’d run out of that day’s edition and I attempted to pay for a copy, the front desk personnel would wink and tell me to run along and spend my 80p on sugarpuffs and bonbons. Sigh. Save me 80p and I will love you till the end of days.

Of course, the primary reason I revelled in the Guardian’s proximity was because of all the Hot Homo Tottie it attracted. Better still, it was Hot Tertiary-Educated Disarmingly-Witty Spandex-Pants-On-The-Outside- Planet-Saving Homo Tottie. In the quiet hours of the day between plastic flow analyses I would sit back and daydream of chance meetings… collisions between single-speed bikes that would end in romantically entangled limbs… the amusing shenanigans of muddled gluten-free salad orders at the organic deli… the rush of wind at the recycling point that whips a pile of shredded documents into the air before it comes to rest on laughing eyelashes and tousled hair. All it lacked was a pottery wheel and an 80s soundtrack.

Sadly, all this must now come to an end. The Guardian is moving its offices to a swish new building near Kings Cross and I shall lose a) my free paper, b) my daily perve, and c) well, ummm, my free paper. I can’t blame them. Their current building is a converted carpark, and while I’m sure the convenience of note-changing machines on every level and the ability to urinate in office corners is not to be underestimated, working within those dotted white lines must eventually get you down.

Worst of all, I have only recently succeeded in infiltrating the Guardian’s wool-knit ranks with my cunning spy, Mrs H. She is moonlighting as a freelance writer for their online service, when in reality she is assembling a secret dossier on its male employees. I have charged her with the task of ranking them according to their:

1. Attractiveness, using my patented 383-step diagnosis.
2. Liquidity, using a traditional hacking-into-the-HR-database technique.
3. Moral fibre, using a small African orphan.
4. Degree of homosexuality, using her own oops-a-piece-of-my-lunch- has-fallen-into-my-cleavage trick.

Mrs H’s early reports were most promising. Apparently even some of the sports writers like batting for the other team, putting a few balls in the back of the net, rowing up the Thames on Tuesday or shooting hoops from the 3-point mark. A sports writer who likes to touchdown inside the baseline is something of a gay Mecca, but the move to Kings Cross has put paid to all these dreams.

So I shall put away my Arsenal T-shirt with matching pinafore, dig 80p out from my piggy bank and face 2009 with a brave smile. I have loved the Guardian, and for those brief two years that I worked in the stinking alley beside her, I think she loved me too. Adieu! Adieu!

And when the wind blows through your shining new offices, and you turn and cock your head to catch the lingering perfume of piss, then think of me, alone, in Farringdon.