THEGAYUK

Author: Thabian Sutherland

  • COMMENT | What is it about gay bars and their disgusting toilets

    Public toilets and gay men have gone fist-in-hand since communal lavs u-bended it on to the scene. But in 2015 we no longer have to skulk around dirty loos looking for love.

    Now sausage-jockeys don’t have to frequent filthy washrooms, you’d think we’d refrain from doing so.

    Gay men are associated with the art of pairing the right Aquascutum Herringbone twill trouser with the perfect Yohji Yamamoto chunky knit. As well as having the same skill with a feather duster and fur-hemmed marigolds as Nigella Lawson has with a rolled up tenner. And all poofs are guaranteed winners of any quiche baking competition.

    So if crafty-butchers are male versions of Channel 4’s cleaning queens Kim Woodburn and Aggie MacKenzie why do homos accept the putrid odours, urine-soaked floors and lack of scented hand wash that characterise toilets of gay bars?

    But the stereotype of the hygienic, clean-freak batty-boy is exactly that – just a stereotype.

    Yours truly has undertaken extensive research up and down the country over the past 16 years, examining the quality and cleanliness of loos in poof pubs and bender bars. To this day not one homosexual drinking establishment’s lavs has matched, or surpassed that of a common-or-garden All Bar One.

    Take the men’s bogs at that one on the corner, for suited gentlemen.. one of Soho’s busiest bender hangouts. They refurbished their lavs a couple of years ago – a decade late but nevertheless. The walls are caked in what looks like a dodgy sponge effect blood and primary red tiles, and gloss cream tiles with a mini pyramid mosaic texture. Clearly, the person responsible for this interior atrocity spent too much time in Rupert’s slash-room. Inhaling the intoxicating fumes addling their creativity.

    Only two cubicles for the boys. Both are missing proper toilet seats and locks. Loo roll, if any, has all the silkiness of an acrylic cardi from Primark.

    Their stainless steel communal urinal wasn’t fortunate enough to be part of the upgrade and has no doubt seen more cock than that of all the Catholic priests residing in the Vatican. If steel could talk. The damn thing is hanging on by the skin of its rusty screws.

    That bar that’s famous for its go-go boys’ WC is also a delight to visit. It’s positioned in the basement, as most powder-rooms are in Soho. However, the stench punches you in the honker before you’ve even hit basement level. Waders would be the correct footwear for a widdle in this gaff but sadly Tom Ford hasn’t released a range to-date. Soap is like a brightly lit sky in Blighty during February. Is Jo Malone alien to bar managers?

    In most fag-boozers there’s the perfume-pushers trying to scrape together their bus fare home, pressing you to squirt a soupçon of their tired and mankey bottles of JPG, Paco Rabanne and Kouros. Or forcing Tesco’s basic own brand soap into your palms before you’ve had time to readjust.

    Undoubtedly nostril curdling whiffs, wee wee streams and dated 80s style décor are the theme of gay bar bogs.

    If you know of any shirt-lifter haunts’ loos that come up to standard – do share. Thabulous would love to be proved wrong.

     

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  • RESTAURANT REVIEW | Arbutus Frith Street Soho (CLOSED)

    Choosing a restaurant in Soho after a couple of gin martinis is like a one-sided game of Battleships. You take aim at the heart-of-London’s gridded streets and often miss, leaving your peg sitting in a tasteless hole. Another evening, another game you fire and it’s bull’s-eye. A peg in a ship suggests a revisit. But what if you’ve hit a piddly patrol boat? Your second hit will sink that tiny ship. It was the competent chef’s shift on your first encounter.

    But every now and then you strike an aircraft carrier that can withstand numerous blows and stay afloat.

    The vessel HRH Lady H and I targeted one finger-numbingly cold January night was christened Arbutus. An aircraft carrier that sails Frith Street. This was my third meal there and she’s still holding her head above water.

    We hiccuped our way through the doors of the one-Michelin-starred gaff, and were greeted by a foxy Marilyn Monroe look-a-like. Marilyn playfully ummed and ahhed, then dangled the eatery’s last table in the air as if it was a toy mouse and we were a pair of mischievous Persian cats. Once she’d made us purr we were led to the table.

    The restaurant is intimate and narrow. The white walls are mostly lined with old black and white photos of city life. One could be sitting in the National Portrait Gallery during a Robert Frank exhibition.

    Lady H’s attention was drawn to the other bums on the banquettes rather than the menu at first. HRH has a penchant for young chaps sporting a crisp white shirt with a subtle hint of Dries Van Noten on their person.

    The frolics didn’t end at reception. Lady H ordered two glasses of Davenport East Sussex bubbly. Our pretty waitress smiled and teased us with the idea of a whole bottle. I dug my Paul Smith calf leather Wallace’s heels in. Deux glasses it was.

    Davenport Limney Estate is as French as us Brits get when it comes to fizz. Much like south-Londoner John Galliano’s final spring/summer collection for Dior.

    Lady began with the Scottish white crab, confit egg yolk, avocado guacamole and brown crabmeat crackers. The ocean fresh crabmeat was mild and sweet. The combination of textures from the runny yolk, crunchy cracker and distinctively strandy crab worked.

    For my entrée shoulder of Elwy Valley lamb and Herefordshire snails ‘lasagne’. The scallop like texture of the snail was slightly overpowered by the lamb. I needed to season this dish. The pea green sauce was about as memorable as the Liberal Democrat’s latest policies.

    To wash down the mains a bottle of The Flower and the Bee (La Folora y la Abeja). Ribena-like with a spicy bite. Utterly drinkable.

    I followed with young Scottish pheasant cooked in hay, with quince jam and cauliflower, with a sausage roll on the side. If the West Cornwall Pasty Company churned out meaty tubes of perfection like this every day I’d be using a different belt loop. The sagey bird came alive with the tart undertones from the jam.

    HRH chose the grilled piece of beef with charred calcot onion, toasted buckwheat and Pomme Anne spuds. I had food-envy slapped across my face like Jordan wears make-up. Your neighbour’s Ford Mondeo is aways shinier. The potato was buttery and rich. A treacly saltiness seeped from this addictive beef.

    To end we shared a selection of cheeses that Borough Market would have been proud of. To accouplement Graham’s 10-year-old port – vibrant, oaky with a nutty bouquet.

    Not as cost effective as eating on the Ark. You’ll need a squadron of Navy officers wages to dine for two on Arbutus’s decks. But she’s worth a hit.