THEGAYUK

Author: Mark David Woollard

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes Speed Dating

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes Speed Dating

    “After his first question, ‘Which is your favourite train model?’ (I kid you not), we sat in silence. I don’t think he was impressed with my answer. I told him my favourite train was Thomas. Before the bell rang to signal the end of the three minutes, he had already got up and left the date”

    I don’t know why I didn’t think of it years ago. I’ve tried Grindr, Plenty of Fish and various other dating apps. I’ve attempted blind dates, set up by well-meaning friends. I’ve even turned my hand, or should that be legs, to bike rides in the country. All to no avail.

    So I saw an advert for speed dating in Leicester Square and decided I had nothing to lose. Other than a clock load of three minutes.

    I came to the conclusion that even I couldn’t go wrong with speed dating. Only three minutes with each man. Surely even I couldn’t show myself up in that time frame.

    This will come as no surprise to my friends, family or avid followers of this column, but I had a Savvy B to calm my nerves and give me a drop of Dutch courage. A rather large drop of Dutch courage. I say a glass, it was actually a bottle.

    The bell rang and it was time for my first three-minute date. I was at a table with a rather handsome man, who at a guess, I would place in his early forties. He had such beautiful eyes, I felt myself start to swoon. I believed I was about to meet my perfect man.

    Well, let me tell you this, whoever coined the phrase, looks can be deceiving deserves a medal. He opened his mouth to tell me his name was Derek. He had a voice which only the word monotone could be used to describe. Trainspotter springs to mind.

    After his first question, “Which is your favourite train model?” (I kid you not), we sat in silence. I don’t think he was impressed with my answer. I told him my favourite train was Thomas. I mean, I was only joking but he had obviously had a sense of humour bypass. Before the bell rang to signal the end of the three minutes, he had already got up and left the date. RUDE. Things can only get better. I hoped.

    I’d never been so grateful to hear a bell in my life. Well, apart from dinner time back in primary school. I was a fat kid, what can I say? I got up and moved to my next victim. Whoops, I mean man.

    I found myself sat opposite another handsome man. But I told myself not to judge a book by its cover after my first failure. Wait until you hear him speak, I heard a voice in my head tell me. And when he did, I fell in love. He was very posh, well-spoken and far from monotone.

    He asked me a question about my occupation and as my gob opened, I saw an eyebrow raise on his boat race. Our voices and accents couldn’t be any more opposite. He clearly came from Barnes and me from Staines.

    “It’s like being on a date with a character from EastEnders!” I kid you not, those were the exact words that left his mouth. I would have raised my eyebrows too, but after botox, I struggle to perform this action.

    He was clearly put off by the way I spoke so instead of raising my eyebrows, I raised my arse from the seat and finished the date prematurely. Third time lucky I hoped as the bell rang again.

    I clutched onto my glass of Savvy B and decided it WOULD be third time lucky. I may be the unluckiest gay in the dating world but I would never lose my optimism. PMA. Positive mental attitude. I’m going to have it etched on my gravestone.

    I sat down at the next table, well I say sat. I’d had a few glasses of New Zealand plonk by this point, so the word stumble is a more appropriate description of how I travelled to my seat. I soon sobered up as I clapped eyes on my next potential beau. DING FUCKING DONG.

    It was a refreshing joy to finally meet a VERY handsome man who seemed reasonably normal. And we seemed to hit it off like a house on fire. We laughed together and he even asked me out for a drink after the speed dating had finished. Maybe the undateable gay’s curse is finally lifting. WATCH THIS SPACE…

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes for a ride

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes for a ride

    Now I know dear readers that you will automatically assume that I am talking about sex. But I’m actually talking about the innocent act of riding a bike. And before any smart arses ask what bike riding has got to do with a dating column, let me fill you in. Pun intended.

    renategranade0 / Pixabay

    I’d been loosely seeing a lovely man from Chichester, the odd date here and there, the occasional stroll along the harbour, the rare fornication or three. Now you may have noticed that I’m referring to him in the past tense. Just for why will become clear by the end of this column.

    Just before Easter, this said man invited me on a mini break to West Wittering in West Sussex. To quote Bridget Jones, “a mini break, it must be true love!” I was so excited, I’d never been whisked away on a mini-break before. I was getting butterflies inside, certain that this was the man for me.

    And for those of you who know West Wittering and the surrounding areas, will know what a beautiful part of our country it is. My absolute favourite place in the whole wide world!

    I made the suggestion that we go for a bike ride on our first day. I could think of nothing more exciting or romantic than riding along together, through country lanes and down sand dunes, with the wind rushing through our hair, staring into each other’s eyes over the handlebars.

    Now the only issue I had was my car. For those close to me will know that my car is the size of a smart car, so there was no way my bike was fitting in that. But my dear Father came up with the solution. I could borrow his fold-up bike. I said yes, but that was before I’d clapped eyes on it. What a god awful contraption. It has to be seen to be believed.

    Day one and the sun was shining down on us in West Sussex. To quote a dear friend, the sun always shines on the righteous.

    After Chichester man had contained his fit of the giggles at the sight of my Father’s fold-up bike, we set off for our ride like a scene from Gone with the Wind.

    As the wind tickled my ever balding scalp, I turned to look back at my riding companion. And joy filled my heart along with the ripe sea air filling my lungs. God, I sound like I’m writing a sickening romantic novel this month.

    We’d ridden about two miles when we arrived in Bracklesham Bay and I noticed a lady walking along with a pram. Chichester man had now overtaken me and was a few hundred yards ahead. He seemed to be much faster than me as you could hardly gather much speed on my Father’s archaic fold up contraption.

    In the silence of the country lanes, I suddenly heard a loud snapping sound which echoed down the street. Even the lady with the pram heard it and we shared eye contact as the confusion on our face was mutual. As I fell backwards from the bike, it soon became clear that the snap was the saddle. And the next thing I knew, I was on my back in the gutter, legs akimbo with a saddle on top of me and a bike slumped in the kerb.

    I let out an almighty shriek as I went down like a sack of shit. The shriek could be heard on the Isle of Wight. And people gathered around me and all I could see were faces staring down at me. After the circle of faces realised nothing more than my pride was hurt, they dispersed and carried on about their business. I stood up, bike in one hand, saddle in the other.

    Chichester man was nowhere to be seen. Had he not seen what had happened to me? Had he not realised I was no longer riding along behind him? Or had he felt too embarrassed to acknowledge he was with the saddle snapping gay boy? I would just like to take this opportunity to point out that the bike’s weight limit is 15 stone and I am only 12 stone, 11 pounds.

    Realising my mini-break companion had done a Houdini on me, I decided to walk back and find the nearest pub. I needed a pint. As I strolled into the pub with the saddle in my hand, a man looked at me most peculiarly.

    “That’s a funny looking bike!” he dared to remark. To which I snapped back,

    “Don’t even talk to me about this fucking bike!” Poor man. I bet he wished he’d never commented.

    The moral of the story. Never ride a fold up bike. And never assume a mini-break means true love.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | That time I lost the erection

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | That time I lost the erection

    I seem to be having a lot of flashbacks lately.

    It certainly makes me feel like I’ve had an extremely action-packed life when it comes to matters of the heart and the bedroom. My friends always tell me my antics make for wonderful dinner party stories. I’m glad I keep them and their guests entertained.

    Anyway, as per usual I’m digressing and not getting to my point. I’m taking you back to 2008. A whole decade ago. When I was mid-20s, rather than the scary mid-30s I have now reached. It was a time when The Bill was still on the box. Oh, how I love The Bill.

    Anyone who knows me will know what an ubër fan of The Bill I was and still am. Never missed an episode. And now I have the whole series in my DVD collection. And I even watch it every day now it is being repeated on the Drama channel. Maybe I shouldn’t admit to this. It may make me even more Undateable but sod it, I’m getting too old to care what people think.

    Such a fan was I, that my quote of the 90s and the 00s was, “Next time on the Bill.” I used to say it at every opportunity I got. If a friend announced a pregnancy or whatever, I’d do my mock shocked face and scream, “Next time on the Bill!” The only time I don’t think it was appreciated was when my friend’s nan had just died. Oh well, I was just trying to lighten the mood.

    So one night, almost a decade ago, we were out celebrating a friend’s birthday in Reflex. God, that takes me back. Reflex in Kingston. R.I.P. What a shame it no longer exists. Too many outer London gay venues are closing for my liking.

    So here we were in the dearly departed Reflex and this man approached me. He wasn’t exactly the prettiest grape in the bunch but my beer goggles were well and truly attached to my old pork pies by this point.

    I hadn’t had a drunken snog in ages and he supplied some lip servicing. I heard Tullene, you know her, the one I went to India with, I heard her shout: “NEXT TIME ON THE BILL” as our lips locked. I burst out laughing in the poor boy’s mouth.

    As he questioned our bizarre behaviour, which actually most people do when it comes to Tullene and I, he asked what the hell we were going on about. I enthusiastically filled him in on my love story with The Bill, at which point he whipped out his warrant card.

    Fuck a duck, he was only a real-life police officer. I was as hard as a truncheon.

    Before you could say, “Next time on the Bill”, I was back at the police officer’s house. He had suddenly become a lot more attractive. I couldn’t believe I was about to have sexual relations with a real police officer.

    I opened his wardrobe to check there was a uniform inside. All the episodes of The Bill I had watched had clearly given me a suspicious mind.

    We got on the bed and as we got our clothes off, my truncheon seemed to lose its life. It went down like a popped balloon. The first time in my whole life, I had lost my erection. The sheer embarrassment.

    To this day, I blame it on karma. Never should you be so fickle and shag a man based on their job. Please make sure you fancy them. I picked up my clothes and did a runner. NEXT TIME ON THE BILL…

  • We need to leave the K out of LGBT+

    COMMENT /

    LGBT is an initialism that has been in use since the late 1980s. Simply standing for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender. But in recent years, extra letters have been added to the acronym, which in my opinion is suppressing the individuality of LGBT people.

    Is the LGBT acronym starting to lose all meaning as more and more letters get tagged onto the end?

    I may be a gay man but sometimes I feel I’ve been bracketed together with other people who, although also gay, may not actually share the same issues, values or goals.

    I feel the acronym is now starting to lose all meaning as letters, which to me have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with homosexuality or trans, are being tagged onto the end.

    K, for example, the most recent letter to be added has really got my gander up. For those of you not in the know, it stands for kink. I really can’t see what kink has to do with the lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender community.

    Please correct me if I’m wrong but the last time I checked, anybody could be a bit kinky or have a kink. Old people, heterosexuals, gays, anyone. So to add K to an already far too long acronym is pushing the boundaries.

    Of course, I believe that anything to do with sexuality or gender identity should still be included in the LGBT umbrella. But others, like K, turn it into a completely different cause altogether. It’s about sexuality, not sexual fantasies.

    I understand the origins of the LGBT acronym. It was to help a minority community feel less marginalised. And to help bring the community into wider society. As a community, we have come very far forward in our rights. I’m not saying the world is perfect for the LGBT community but it’s certainly ten times better than it was fifty years ago.

    My fear is that we are detaching ourselves from the society that we have fought to become accepted in and a part of. This long-winded acronym, to an outsider, can seem pretty daunting and far too politically correct.

    For a minority group who have fought for many, many years for inclusion, I fear we are endangering ourselves of exclusion from an accepting society by pigeonholing the gay community with this acronym.

     

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | And here’s why you should never fake tan while flaccid

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | And here’s why you should never fake tan while flaccid

    This Valentine’s day I decided that I was a strong, independent gay man who needed no-one. I’d resigned myself to the fact that no cards from eligible bachelors were going to be gracing my letterbox. No flowers delivered from florists were going to be displayed on my window sill. Oh Jesus, someone get the violins out and a bottle of Prozac.

    KlausHausmann / Pixabay

    I must tell you that I did send one card though. And that was to my dear devoted mummy. The sheer embarrassment in the shop when the sales assistant asked, “ooh, who’s the lucky man?” whilst fondling the card which read I LOVE YOU. Holding up my head (and my chins), I said, “It’s for my Mum actually!” I thought I was going to throttle the bitch as she bit her lip sympathetically.

    I could see it in her eyes, the look of sheer sympathy. I could read her thoughts. The poor bachelor gay boy in his mid-thirties, whose face won’t move for botox and who’s spent more time drinking sauvignon blanc than he has been in relationships.

    Well, that’s what her face said but the words that actually left her mouth were:
    “I hope I have a son like you one day!”

    Anyway, enough of my Valentine’s card woes. Even though I’d decided I didn’t need a relationship, a man for shagging purposes might be nice. So I went to visit a dear old friend, affectionately known as an FB. I won’t explain FB in case my mum is reading. She’ll just think it stands for Facebook so let’s just leave it at that.

    Preparation for a visit to the FB is crucial. Out came my tube of Veet and the manscaping commenced. Next was a visit to the spray tan booth. I whipped off my clothes and let the rays of fake sun, otherwise known as Lauren’s way, penetrate me from head to toe. You must always have a spray tan completely naked. You can’t risk any potential white bits.

    Hair free and sun-kissed, I was ready for Mr FB. It was time to build up my strength for a night of Valentine’s passion so out came the spinach and the rocket. Just call me Popeye. I gobbled my way through the meal fit for Popeye and off I went.

    As the passion began, we ripped each other’s clothes off. I’m fearing this column is going to turn into a snippet from a Mills & Boon. But so be it, the needs of telling this tale demand it sound so.

    Now, for any man who knows me intimately, will know it doesn’t take me long before my manhood stands to full attention. A red-blooded man, Kylie would sing.

    As Mr FB went to attend to my man soldier, I saw his eyes widen.

    “What?” I screamed.
    “Have you got some sort of skin condition?” he asked.
    It was time for my eyes to widen.
    “No! I fucking don’t!” I bellowed.

    He instructed me to look at my erected soldier and as I did, my eyes widened even wider. Cor! Where I’d had the spray tan naked with a flaccid penis, it clearly hadn’t fake tanned all the skin. My erect penis had stripes!

    “Where I’d had the spray tan naked with a flaccid penis, it clearly hadn’t fake tanned all the skin. My erect penis had stripes!”

    “You’ve got a Zebra penis!” Mr FB thought it was funny. If only it was the size of a Zebras.

    To quickly move on from the sheer embarrassment of the Zebra situation, I held Mr FB down and performed fellatio. I’m using that posh word in case my mum is reading. She’ll think it’s a character from a Shakespeare play.

    As I pulled away from my act of fellatio, I noticed a bit of rocket dangling from the end of Mr FB’s manhood.

    OH GOD, PLEASE GROUND, SWALLOW ME NOW! Normally it’s me that’s doing the swallowing.

    Mr FB looked up, or I should say down actually and he noticed the rocket dangling.
    “Where did that come from?” I asked innocently.

    Perhaps I should avoid sexual encounters as well as relationships. Over and out from the Zebra/Rocket man…

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Catches Crabs

    Once upon a time dear readers, I did actually have a boyfriend. I know it’s hard to believe considering I’ve been single and seemingly undateable for over a decade. But at one point in my adult life, I managed to hold down a relationship way past the first date.

    I’m reminiscing about an era in my early twenties. Back when Atomic Kitten and Destiny’s Child were ruling the charts. A time when I dreamed of a sex change To become Tanya Turner and marry a footballer.

    But as usual, I’m digressing and babbling on without getting to the point. Maybe that’s what I do on first dates and why I’ve never made it to a second date in ten years. Anyway, I’m not here for self-analysis today.

    I was so in love with this boy in my early twenties. And he was so in love with me. Let’s call him Sebastian to avoid any law suits being filed against me. That’s probably an unfortunate choice of name to give him, considering this is a tale of crabs and I’m not talking about the cute red one from The Little Mermaid.

    For nearly a year we lived in each other’s pockets, a whirlwind romance. I thought to myself on a daily basis; This is a man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. He even met my family which is a rarity in my love life.

    And then one night, I remember this vividly like it was only yesterday.

    I was having a glass of wine with Jane, my neighbour and I saw her staring peculiarly at my crotch. Feeling I may need to remind her I’m gay, she suddenly screamed,

    “You’ve been itching all night!”

    After another glass of wine, I plucked up the courage to pull my trousers down in front of a lady. Well, I don’t know if you can call Jane a lady but let’s use that word because I’m feeling quite nice as I write this.

    As she examined my pubic region, I heard her scream as she came eye to eye with a crab. Our jaws dropped and I burst into tears.

    So did Jane I think.

    We pulled out a medical dictionary from the bookshelf. Yes, that’s right. We didn’t have iPhones with Google at our fingertips in those days. And from our dictionary, we self-diagnosed crabs. I pulled one out and I could see its legs moving. Probably the most unpleasant moment of my life. Oh and probably Janes’ as well.

    A quick visit to the sexual health clinic confirmed the self-diagnosis as correct. But the bare-faced cheek of the doctor asking me if I knew the dangers of sleeping around.

    “I’ve got a boyfriend who I’ve been with for over a year!” I bellowed.

    “Well, one of you has been a naughty boy!” She retorted.

    After establishing that it’s very rare to catch crabs from a toilet seat or dirty bedding, my eyes widened as I drew the only plausible conclusion. Sebastian must have been cheating on me because I damn well knew I had followed the rules of my Christian upbringing and remained faithful.

    A few panic attack’s later and a slap around the face for Sebastian, another realisation dawned on me. I had to tell my Mum and Dad. The doctor had told me that everything in my house needed to go in the washing machine on a hot wash. And I still lived with my parents. Oh, the sheer embarrassment.

    And then my eyes widened even wider at the prospect I may have given my Mum and Dad crabs. Our towels were always hanging on the rail together. Luckily, this story has a happy ending.

    Sebastian was giving his marching orders.

    I got rid of my infestation.

    And my parents were crab free.

  • COMMENT | Do we really live in a world where you can be gay in a football game, but not in real life?

    The computer game, Football Manager is to feature gay players. I find this one of the most refreshing and liberating moves of 2017.

    Although it also angers me that it’s taken until 2017 for it to happen. And it’s so shocking that modern male British football is still waiting for its first openly gay player.

    I find it incredibly weird that homosexuality still seems to be a problem in football. It’s absolutely crazy that in this day and age, we are still in a world where people can’t be themselves.

    I’m hoping this computer game will be a massive boost in combating homophobia that stems from football fans. Especially the young teenage fans who will be playing football manager.

    From what I’ve read about this game, I feel it will create a really a positive message. Yes, there are some amazing footballers who also happen to fancy men. Now let’s move on.

    This is what shocks me. The statistic that 8 percent of football fans said they would stop watching their team if it had a gay player. WTF! That shocks me to my very core.

    I’ve got a message for you 8 percent. I’m sure your teams won’t miss you or your homopnarrow-minded minded, bigoted support.

    I look forward to the day when anyone involved in football feels 100% comfortable with sexuality. Of course, I’m not naive enough to believe that this computer game is the answer to the problem. But at least it’s a start in normalising homosexuality in football.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY: Visits a Turkish bath

    Has anyone ever been to Turkey? If you haven’t, I really recommend that you do. The weather is beautiful, the resorts are luscious and the men are tall, dark and handsome.

    Now, after my Indian adventure, you would have thought that I’d had enough of holidaying with my best friend, Tullene. But no, clearly I’m a glutton for punishment.

    The only annoying thing about Turkey is that you can’t walk more than a hundred yards down the road without someone trying to sell you something. Whether it be a boat trip, apple tea or a fake football shirt.

    But the one thing I didn’t mind getting stopped and sold in the street was the offer of a Turkish bath. When you have a tall, dark, handsome man offering you a foam rub down and an oil massage, any proper gay man answers yes.

    The next thing we knew, we were inside the Turkish bath and were very excited. We got ourselves dressed appropriately, Tullene in a swimsuit, me in a pair of Speedos. And we got taken down for part one of the Turkish bath.

    We were laid out on a round, marble slab. And they began washing us from toe to head in this delightful foam. Ooh, I tell you, I felt like a gay Marilyn Munroe in that iconic bath photo shoot.

    After we’d had buckets of hot water lashed over us to wash off the foam, we were moved onto part two of our spa experience. The sea salt exfoliation Massage.

    I couldn’t wait to have all my dead skin cells scrubbed away. As any fake tan addict will tell you, a full body exfoliation is just what one needs every now and again to avoid crusty elbows and knees.

    But the men doing the scrub were rather rough. I felt like I was being exfoliated by Hulk Hogan. I started screaming because it felt like they were ripping the skin fresh from my calves.

    Now, before I tell you the next part of the experience, I must make you aware of Tullene’s nickname. We all call her T-bag. Probably something to do with her name beginning with T and the fact she’s an old bag.

    So whilst I was having the skin ripped from my calves, I started shouting “T-bag! T-bag!”, to convey to Tullene I was in pain.

    But the Scottish boys, who were on the marble slab with us, obviously didn’t know this was Tullene’s nickname. So I suddenly heard Scottish accents shouting,

    “He wants them to T-bag him!”

    Oh, the cringe-worthy embarrassment.

    After surviving the skin peeling calf exfoliation and the Scottish T-bagging, we were swiftly moved onto our oil Massage. As we walked along, I saw one of the male therapists winking at me. Well, I think he was winking at me. That or he had a nervous twitch. I couldn’t work out which one.

    The male therapist suddenly stopped and grabbed me by the shoulder. He whispered in my ear in his seductive Turkish accent, “you’re beautiful!”

    Well, I blushed. Although you probably couldn’t tell as the 46-degree Turkish heat had sunburnt my face.

    As we carried on walking, something took me completely by surprise. I suddenly felt a finger slip up my ring piece, along with some material from my speedos. Well, my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. How forward. Not that I was complaining.

    He took us into our very own beauty room, which had two Massage beds waiting for us.

    “Lay on the beds! Face down!” He barked.

    We did as we were told but Tullene looked up. He obviously wasn’t happy at her disobedience.
    “FACE DOWN!” He barked again at Tullene.

    We both started doing our nervous laughs that we’re famous for. And then I felt another tap on my shoulder. As I looked up, I was greeted by a rather large Turkish erection. It practically took my eye out.

    But it seemed such a shame to waste a perfectly good erection. So we swiftly asked Tullene to leave the room.

  • COMMENT | Utter Trash: Lord Tebbit, Pollution does not create transgender people

    Former chairman of the Conservative party Lord Tebbit has claimed air pollution is making people transgender. Probably the most offensive and mind-boggling suggestion I have heard in my whole life.

    Personally, I think air pollution is polluting this narrow-minded man’s brain and causing him to make completely ludicrous claims.

    He also claimed that transgender people were a new phenomenon, stating he could not recollect any such individuals among his fellow pupils at school. Maybe, Lord Tebbit, this is because you attended a posh private school where you were wrapped in cotton wool and sheltered from the real world.

    If you’d lived a normal person’s life, seeing the real world, I’m sure such claims would not even enter your head. You’ve only got to read a factual novel or even watch a historical drama or documentary and you’ll be educated in the fact that transgender is not a new phenomenon.

    He says his theory that air pollution triggers being transgender, is the belief of some scientists. Now, I have Googled and researched into this and it’s very unclear exactly which scientists he is referring to. There seems to be no scientific evidence to support his claims. Probably because even a non-scientist, such as myself, can work out that his theories are simply narrow-minded bigotry.

    In an attempt to absolve his bizarre and offensive opinions, he said that he knows “voicing such thoughts will probably bring coals of fire upon my head.” I’m sorry Lord Tebbit but even anticipating that what you are saying will cause offence offers you no absolution.

    Last week, Mrs May said and I quote, “Homophobia, biphobia and transphobia have still not been defeated and they must be.” Yes, I agree with you, Prime Minister. They must be. Maybe a good first step will be ridding the Conservative party of such people as Lord Tebbit. And then you may stand a chance.

  • COMMENT | The NHS is wrong to ask patient’s their sexuality

    Doctors have been ordered to ask patients if they are gay. This is one of the most ludicrous decisions I feel the NHS has ever decided to make.

    What is the point of GP’s having to record every patient’s sexuality? I really fail to see the point of this new rule and to me, I fear it’s building up to the UK becoming a nanny state.

    It’s being called intrusive and Orwellian by many people. I agree. I’m very lucky, I’m an open gay man who is widely accepted by family, colleagues and friends. But what about those in denial about their sexuality? Or those who simply don’t feel comfortable in coming out yet? I’m scared it may actually do more harm than good.

    I have deep fears about the security of the data, as any leak could potentially ‘out’ thousands of patients.

    Many visits to the GP are for everyday ailments, like tonsillitis, chest infections, aches and pains etc. So how is a doctor questioning their patient’s sexuality going to aid them in making a diagnosis and prescribing treatment? Quite frankly, none whatsoever. I’m no medical expert, but I’m sure antibiotics are the same for a straight person, a gay man or a bisexual woman.

    Unless it’s related to your health, I believe that your sexuality is not the NHS’s business. The precious eight minutes you get with a GP is short enough, without taking up the time to ask unnecessary questions. You want medical advice from a doctor. Not your sexual preference being interrogated.

    So, from 2019, every patient over the age of 16 will be asked to state their sexuality. Is it really relevant to ask an 80-year-old grandfather if they’ve ever had a relationship with a man?

    I think this ludicrous, intrusive and damn right ridiculous question should be scrapped before it even begins. Doctors and the NHS are stretched enough as it is, without adding sexuality checks to their workload. Let them stick to what they do best. Medically treating and diagnosing patients. And this is something they do exceptionally well, without knowing a patient’s sexual orientation.

     

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.

  • COMMENT | Religious bigots don’t deserve to keep their jobs

    The Archbishop of Sydney has said that religious believers could lose their jobs if same-sex marriage is legalised in Australia. If these religious believers are acting bigoted or being narrow-minded, then quite frankly, they don’t deserve to keep their jobs.

    He went on to say those religious believers could also face discrimination suits and bullying if the bill is passed. But what about the bullying and discrimination homosexuals have faced for years? He clearly doesn’t care about the homosexuals facing this. Hypocrisy. And such a caring attitude for a religious leader. Please excuse my sarcasm.

    He told worshippers that the government should “keep out of the friendship business and out of the bedroom.” Maybe he should take his own advice and keep out of the situation also. What right does being the Archbishop give him to interfere in friendship and bedroom matters?

    “The state has no business telling us who we should love and how, sexually or otherwise.” In his arrogance, he is, ironically, showing support of same-sex marriage. Thank you for that Archbishop. For once, we might actually agree on a point. No one should play God and tell anyone who they can love or marry. Pun intended. The fact we still need to vote on such matters is a disgrace in itself.

    This delightful human being carried on saying that it’s best for children to have a mother and a father. So Archbishop, what about the poor children who have been bought up in a single parent family because one parent died? Or the awful stories we hear of children being sexually abused by their mother and father?

    I’m no genius, but that is clearly not best for children. Issues in our society are not so black and white. It’s not a simple case of stating children should have heterosexual parents, one being a woman and one being a man.

    In my eyes, it’s best for children to have a role model who cares for them and loves them unconditionally and teaches them right from wrong. This could be a single parent or a mother and father or a mother and mother or a father and father.

    He continued in his arrogant preaching by saying if marriage is redefined, it will be very hard to speak up for real marriage anymore. What is real marriage, Archbishop? Beg my pardon for my simplistic views, but I thought marriage was the joining of two people who love each other whilst committing themselves, for richer, poorer, in sickness and in health etc.

    He said the vote had implications for religious freedom. This is actually so angering because the vote actually has massive implications for human freedom. The freedom for people to marry who they want to marry.

     

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