THEGAYUK

Category: Column

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | When A Date Turns Ugg-ly

    So, here I am. In Soho, waiting at a fondue restaurant. My date is called Simon. He is a buyer for Mulberry. Mmm, now I’m no shallow man but this instantly excites me. He must have a rather decently sized….bank account! Not that finances is an instant winner for me. But it does help. I can’t have anyone wanting to feed from my bank account.

    As he enters, I find he is rather pleasing on the eye. A bonus point in his favour. I know people say that looks aren’t everything but I really couldn’t imagine sh*gging someone who looks like the back end of the N7. All red and fumes squirting from every orifice. That is definitely no turn on for moi.

    We spark instantly. He talks of mulberry handbags. I have a rather sparse knowledge of mulberry handbags. My friend is a manager for one of their stores at Heathrow. She hardly talks about the brand but I know enough to engage in the conversation. This reminds me of a funny moment we once shared in Mexico. She was talking about handbags but mishearing, she thought we were taking the p*ss out of her. My manager friend turned her head and said, “I know my f***ing materials!”

    My mouth, open wide, dropping to my sun lounger, said “what?” Realising we weren’t taking the piss, she continued her conversation. To this day, I have no recollection of why she thought we were being detrimental to her career.

    After realising that he failed to find this conversation amusing, I thought I should leave the restaurant. But my mother always taught me, “if you start something, you must see it through.” I could hear her London accent echo through my ears. She was my inspiration to carry on.

    We shared a cheese fondue. It was all sticky and gooey. We were dipping bread sticks in like it was a euphemism for what was to come later. And at this point, I really did think the euphemism would come to fruition. We finished our main and we had had a few belly laughs. Belly laughs? Surely that means a second date is on the cards. We ordered a desert. If you stay for dessert, you are bound to be invited for coffee. And one hopes the coffee ain’t going to be at the restaurant table.

    Desert of chocolate fondue with marshmallows finished, I suggest we frequent G-A-Y late for a cocktail and a dance. Praying it’s not a cliche, he accepts. As we enter the bar, he goes up and orders me a sex on the beach. Yes, I admit, that is my cocktail of choice. Yes, I admit, I am a slut and hope this engages my date’s brain to adopt this thought process. Unlucky for me, it fails and he doesn’t decide to whisk me off to Brighton beach for a quickie.

    As I get over the fact he isn’t going to whisk me off to the beach, I remember that I have purchased brand new UGG boots! Excited to show off my new purchase, I cock my leg up. Well, the bastard doesn’t believe they are real. At his disbelief, I cock my leg higher to show off the UGG logo. One too many sex on the beach and I lose my balance. My hand lands directly in his genitalia region. If it wasn’t for my fake tan, you would be able to see my red-faced embarrassment. I apologise but the frigid kn*b thinks it’s a come on. “That’s a bit forward!” He proclaims. “It was an accident.” I protest. He gets up and leaves the club. Yes, leaving me all on my todd in this club. He obviously isn’t the man for me. Is any man? God only knows.

     

    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.

  • My day as an EXTRA on Corrie

    When I was asked ”Do you fancy a day in The Rover’s Return this Christmas?”, it took a fraction of a millisecond to say yes. If nowt else I was open to the possibility of uncovering some juicy backstage dirt. Purely in the name of investigative reporting of course.

    The politically correct term for them these days is ”background artistes”. Everyone still calls them ”extras” though to be honest. They are the people you see in movies and TV shows, fleshing out the screen and adding depth and presence; whether the thousands of mourners in the funeral scene in Gandhi or a handful of punters in the pub on Coronation Street.

    I must say I am not the most regular of viewers these days but Corrie will always have a special place in my heart. Still going strong after over 50 years of existence, it’s influence and importance can not be overstated. On a personal note, I remember how it was the only telly show my dear old mum considered unmissable. I’m also old enough to get a touch misty-eyed at the slightest mention of Elsie Tanner (aka The Greatest TV Character Ever).

    Production of the show has moved out of Manchester in recent years to a purpose built studio complex at Media City, Salford. The studio is just yards away from BBC North and the legendary cobbles and familiar terraced houses are a stone’s throw from the sleek glass and metal, Blader Runner-esque buildings of Salford Quays.

    On arrival at reception, extras are ushered into a nearby area called The Hub, a holding area where we await further instruction. With its white and bright orange walls, it is not dissimilar to the breakfast room of a budget hotel. Trays of ITV branded mugs sit in a small kitchen area, next to a fridge crammed with milk and loaves of bread. After making coffee and toast, it was time to sit and wait to be told the plan for the day.

    Young assistants, or runners, rush in and out in their unofficial uniform of hoodies, battered jeans and Converse. They clutch clipboards loaded with lists and wear headsets constantly connecting them to the show’s Mission Control, as vital as life support to the smooth running of a logistical juggernaut like The Street. The runners are friendly enough but have the brisk, no-nonsense manner of people well drilled in getting disparate tribes of people from A to B with minimum fuss on a daily basis.

    I asked our runner, Paul, if the novelty of working on Corrie ever wore off.

    ”It does become just a job, yeah. But when you tell someone where you work and see the reaction, you remember it is a cool place to be working.”

    Paul took us across into the studio, a vast low ceiling hangar-like space. Off the main walkway are the individual sets; rows of plywood boxes with words like ”The Kabin” and ”Bookies Flat” written on the back of them. Moving through the studio, I caught brief glimpses of familiar rooms through gaps in the flimsy walls.

    After a brief delay, we were taken onto our set; The Rover’s Return. An obvious statement but the first impression was that it looks just like it does on the telly but smaller and darker.

    The scenes we were filming were short and light in tone. They were for the Christmas episodes, so the pub was festively decorated including a string of silver tinsel around the picture of the much missed Betty Turpin on the wall. That made the inner long term viewer inside me go “Aw”.

    Us extras were briefed on what we were doing and when and where to move and work on the scenes commenced very shortly after. Film and TV making can be notoriously slow moving and exacting, but turning out over two hours of television a week Coronation Street is factory like in approach. Flubbed lines or technical hitches cause only the briefest of breaks in the production line and it resumes at a relentless pace.

    From my privileged position as ”Man At Bar Reading Wetherfield Gazette” I eavesdropped as the regular cast on set gossiped, joked and chatted between takes. Listening to it all seemed to me so, for want of a better word, normal. As they discussed weekend plans and showed each other YouTube clips on their phones, it felt exactly like the light, time killing banter that takes place in a million other workplaces day in and day out. Although not many workplaces have a cabinet packed full of BAFTAs and Royal Television Society Awards in the foyer admittedly. The cast shared private jokes, talked about family and gently teased each other; the universal language of professional colleagues who get on well together.

    It stands to reason actually. With their grinding schedules and constant demands, Coronation Street and the other long running soaps are the actor’s equivalent of a 9 to 5 office job. And just like in any other place of work, there is even a spot of office politics as I overheard a couple of long standing stars having a grumble about management. Discretion, of course, prevents me from naming names. That and I would quite like to be invited back one day.

    So I can’t say I was privy to any major revelations or noteworthy nuggets of gossip during my visit to The Rovers. However next time I read one of the show’s stars tell an interviewer how the cast are One Big Happy Family, I’m now slightly less likely to write it off as PR bull and roll my eyes in cynicism.

    This Christmas On Coronation Street:

    Will Gary Ruin Christmas? Does Kylie stand to lose everything? Find out in the Christmas Day Episode on ITV1 at 8pm.

  • THE MAN WHO WORE MAKEUP: Me, My Enemy And My Ally

    THE MAN WHO WORE MAKEUP: Me My Enemy My Ally

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  • COLUMN | Growing old (dis) gracefully

    I have concluded that I am officially growing old. The use of my reading glasses is causing a massive internal struggle between resistance to ageing and the reality that they really do make a difference. Equally middle aged spread is spreading rather too rapidly and the hair on my head is getting thinner, whiter and further back and even my beard is showing signs of salt and pepper colouring. But most of all, it is the fact that I seem to be turning into my mother. Now, I do not mean that in any derogatory way at all, but, scarily, I can see so many of her ways starting to emerge in my own behaviour.

    Recently, I went to the theatre in Manchester. My first realisation of the day was standing at the kitchen sink, filling a water bottle with orange cordial to take with me, as I couldn’t see the point of paying for a bottle of pop to take into the theatre. As I glanced at my reflection in the kitchen window, I could see my face morph into my mother’s face; staring back at me and giving me a wry smile.

    On the train journey over the Pennines, there were three young girls on the table opposite who spent the majority of the journey complaining about a faux hangover (they were far too young to drink), preening themselves with make-up which was applied whilst using the back of their iPhone as an impromptu mirror and talking giddily about grown up things like how exciting the sixth-form was. The way that they were talking, anyone would think that they had invented doing A-Levels and going out and getting drunk. My days of college tuition and wondering if I looked old enough to get served at the bar seemed a very long way away. This was coupled with my ongoing old(er) person’s amazement at the progress of technology. I was actually sat on the train using my mobile phone, which is not that much bigger than a box of Swan Vesta, to send a birthday message to my friend in Australia and knew that it would be there in a matter of milliseconds. The Atari 2600 was never like this.

    Over the course of the day, there was a plethora of further realisations of my progression in life. The value of the Tupperware in the pound shop. Discussing how I would much rather stay in on a Friday night with a bottle of wine and a DVD than go out to a pub. Standing in a shop listening to thrash metal blare out over the speakers, whilst, in my head, being able to hear my mother’s voice saying in unison with mine “how on Earth can you call that noise music?”. Insisting on using the toilets in Debenhams as “at least you know they will be clean”. Baulking at the youngsters over the top / borderline pornographic displays of public affection. And finally, bemoaning the fact that that I would not have bought any of the olives from the street market, because they were in open baskets and everyone had been coughing and spluttering over them all day.

    But the final realisation came as I left the theatre; given that I had been the first person on my feet, singing and dancing awkwardly in the narrow space between the rows of seats at the finale, without recourse to what anyone who was seated behind me and viewing this disturbing spectacle actually thought. The thing was, I didn’t actually care. I used to sink into my theatre seat, wholly overcome by shame and embarrassment, when my mother used to shout “He’s behind you” at the pantomime when I was younger.

    But here I was, doing exactly what my mother would have done – dancing and clapping along like a demented loon in the theatre and I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

    As I headed to the train station, I glared at the young things heading out for their night out on the town, when all I could think about was getting on the sofa for a nap. But I happily felt comfortable and content in the knowledge that, as I entered the station and got on the train, my bottle of wine and DVD was waiting for me at home… and comfortable and content in the knowledge that I wouldn’t want to swap their evening for mine. This growing old thing isn’t so bad after all.

     

     

    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.

  • COLUMN | Growing up gay – my story

    Inspired by Paul Vitagliano’s book – Born This Way: Real Stories of Growing Up Gay, I’ve decided to share my own story of growing up gay.

    I’m about eight or nine in this photo, it’s Christmas and I’m striking a pose in my Power Rangers pyjamas proudly showing off my new cross puppet. I remember loving to entertain others, being full of confidence and having no inhibitions. I remember being sensitive, caring and sometimes in a world of my own. My mum describes me as a child by saying I was “such a joy to have.”

    If you had shown me this photo as a teenager I’d have cringed with embarrassment. By my teen years I’d realised that I was different to others; I became very self-conscious of what my peers thought about me and was hiding my sexuality out of fear of what they’d think, say or do. I also became extremely self-critical of seemingly everything about myself.

    Today, I look at this photo and aspire to be like that younger version of myself. I am so thankful that as a child my mum instilled me with confidence to be myself and always made me feel loved. I am still learning and developing as I experience life, but there are many goals I’ve been successful in achieving and the others I’m working towards.

    If there are any gay youth who are experiencing what I did in my teens I would encourage them to stay true to who they are, only listen to the opinions of people who truly love you – they will love you for who you are, seek out support (Google: lgbt support) and come out when you’re ready.

    I look at this photo and think: how did my family not know I was gay? The answer is that they did! I was born gay and I wouldn’t be any other way.

    Born This Way: Real Stories of Growing up Gay by Paul Vitagliano can be purchased from Amazon.

  • COLUMN | Mr Nosey

    I have a very bad habit on public transport. I’m incurably nosy and I can’t help peeking over people’s shoulders at what they’re reading, watching or texting. It’s naughty, voyeuristic and an invasion of privacy but oh what a joy it can be.

    Whether it’s spotting the suited businessman who is secretly reading a romantic novel on his Kindle, the surprisingly sexual texts of a middle aged woman or the semi-pornographic and bizarre social media feeds of a teenager; I love the little glimpse it gives me into people’s lives. It’s a bit like the dusky late summer nights when you get a peek into people’s sitting rooms in the magical little hour when people light the lamps just before they draw their curtains. It’s a very guilty pleasure but I confess. I’m guilty as charged. I love to see and imagine what others’ lives are like. I’m not after spying on people naked or spotting people in coitus. I’d be pretty mortified if I did and blush the colour of a pillar-box whilst quickly looking away. I want to see nasty curtains and ornaments, not cocks.

    I got a couple of shocks recently. About a month ago I was on the train into central London and a well-groomed man of about 20 was answering a volley of texts on his phone. I cast a sneaky sideways glance and was pretty horrified to read that he was setting up being the all you can eat buffet for a group of Chinese businessmen in a hotel. The reassuring factor was that the person procuring his services appeared to have arranged it very carefully and was reassuring him that the businessmen would all wait in a separate room and take it turns, forming an orderly queue to make use of his body. I must admit to feeling a bit queasy but reproached myself for my bourgeois small mindedness. He was wearing McQueen (he needed income to maintain that look), looked relaxed and happy and who am I to have qualms about his job just because I wouldn’t do it myself. Although, an orderly queue? I love good manners. Maybe not such a horrific job after all, provided it was a good quality hotel.

    A few weeks ago I was travelling up North and my nosiness caused me a major dilemma. The middle-aged businessman man sitting in front of me was reviewing his selection of photographs on his phone.

    These weren’t happy snaps of his kids or shots of Instagrammed food: they were covert photos of young women’s crotches taken under train tables. After an hour of seeing him from between the seat backs enlarging, changing definitions and compulsively viewing a huge collection of photos of women’s thighs and gussets (all taken under train tables), I made my displeasure known through a series of huffs and tsks that made him stop for a good 5 minutes before resuming his compulsion.

    To cut a long story very short: I managed to make like a cross between Mary Whitehouse and Miss Marple and got his name and company address from his email signature when he sent an email on his laptop and reported him to the police. Being the person I am, I challenged him first and asked if I could take a picture of his cock or not; a question he seemed to object to which was something I found hypocritical in an inveterate vagina snapper.

    He, ultimately, got a police caution, which was great. My point in telling the story? I wonder am I any better than him? I invade privacy by reading texts, looking in people’s houses and I lecherously glance at men’s bulging crotches on public transport. Only yesterday, I couldn’t resist a good look at a muscled man in tight Lycra (he was definitely circumcised). I know people who post pictures of hot men in the street on Facebook for their friends’ to comment on.

    There are whole social media feeds of people’s photos of bare chested young men on Tube trains. It’s no wonder that we can get confused on what is right and wrong any more. Is my grandmother’s favourite 1950’s past time of passing on overheard bits of gossips over the garden fence any different in its intrusive and harmful voyeuristic joy? Is the digital age making us all into a bunch of twisted individuals?

    Maybe we should all think twice about what the boundaries are and what is harmless admiration and what is invasion of privacy. The questions and issues are endless. The big question: will I stop peeking at people’s I-Pads and phones? Of course not.

  • COLUMN | You Have Got To Be Kitten Me Meow

    Why am I so obsessed with the cat? Cats in general. My friends are too, and it’s not a cliquey, inside joke thing either. The catalogue and popularity of cat-based videos or pictures on the Internet seems insatiable – I do believe we have all become “advocats”. One Pride, my friends and I discovered that the cat had puked on the kitchen floor, which we somehow turned into a scatty psychotic “whodunnit” game as to who tapped / romanced the cat so hard it vomited a ravishing tuna ragu.

    We later discovered the cat had helped itself to cheesy nachos (comfort eating). But we still had our suspicions about one of the party guests and his cat-loving tendencies. We were even more confused when the cat left us two dead birds on the front door step, which could implicate that there was a third party involved also, a gift for each culprit… I digress lost in my “Memories”. So, when did this obsessive nature with cats for this planet start? What was the catalyst?

    Ancient Egypt regarded cats to be demi-gods, along with one of their Goddesses, Bastet, being depicted in the form of a cat. Bastet was the goddess of protection, love, dance, and music. Perhaps the inspiration for the creator of Dubstep cat? Probably not. When you hear or read about the “Eye of Ra”- Bastet is one of the gods that form the “Eye” as she was regarded as Ra’s defender. Cats were so highly regarded and protected that they were even mummified! Now there’s an idea for The Mummy 6,7, or whatever number they’re on now! Best not give them any ideas actually.

    Over in Greece we have tales by Herodotus that in the event of a household’s cat passing away, the family would shave their eyebrows to signify their loss. I can’t say I’m too surprised about that tradition not catching on. Plus, why would we want to shave off our eyebrows when we can just get the cats face tattooed now instead- Hoorah!

    And, what of the temptress, the beckoning cat of Japan (maneki neko). A talisman believed to attract an abundance of fortune and luck. You’ve all seen them before in oriental food stores and restaurants. On the surface they may strike you to be a tacky garish bit of plastic, but actually they are quite profound. These little talismans come in all shapes and sizes, colours, wearing different outfits etc. Each having its own meaning and purpose from ensuring success in love to keeping evil spirits at bay.

    Looking at our global obsession, I stumbled across a rather sweet old wives’ tale, or fable if you like, from Poland about pussy willow. The story reads of a mother cat crying down by a riverbank where her kittens were drowning as they had chased butterflies into the water. The willow along side the river recognised the mummy cat’s distress and leaned their branches into the water. The kittens clasped onto the willow and were brought to shore safely, and now each springtime the willow sprouts their little fur buds to represent where the kittens once clung. Isn’t that just LOVELY?! Also, fun fact: do you know how you would refer to a group of cats? A clowder of cats. Alternatively you could say a glaring of cats, or my personal favourite, a clutter of cats. Lovely on the tongue- the expression, not the actual cat.

    So let us now catapult back to modern day where we have such likes of “Nyan Cat”, the YouTube sensation that has nearly 110 million views! Hours upon hours of comical cat compilations to the weird and disturbing! “Welcome to Kitty City” is particularly hypnotic. What on earth possessed us to start sticking cats faces through pieces of bread? And “melon cat”? There have been so many viral crazes its unreal, but the latest fad for me really takes the biscuit.

    Cat. Cafés. London’s Lady Dinah’s café, where you can sit for coffee, perhaps a slice of cake- with cats… that are just roaming around you. You might be thinking what a great idea- and I suppose I do too, as all the cats are re-homed cats so it is for a good cause etc. But this café is fully booked until October this year! The city of Melbourne, Australia has recently announced they are also opening their first cat café. Before we know it we’ll be ordering our McDonald’s from a tabby in a cap, “Would you like catnip with that?”. It will be interesting to see which fashion house actually puts a cat on the cat walk first. Irony would suggest Pucci.

    Our feline friends can also be trained to become a “therapy cat”, used to decrease anxiety, level out heart rate, and general companionship. My knowledge of the depth of training is limited, but I doubt they get paws on with a stethoscope or have to study the human mind- I am sure that a nice temperament would ensure flying colours though!

    I personally would say I am a dog-lover; I have to by default as I have 2 via shared custody. However, there is something different about cats that seem to have captivated us for thousands of years. There isn’t one specific thing that you can put your finger on either. They are and have been icons of protection, magick, deities, luck, love, music, humour and companionship. They pretty much tick every box in terms of positive connotations. I read somewhere, “The internet is a lot like ancient Egypt. People write on walls and worship cats”. On that note, I’m off for a catnap. (Sorry).

  • COLUMN | Dating Dilemma

    When embarking on a new relationship, or even trying to throw a bit of glitter back into your existing one, we find ourselves putting forward ideas for activities we may not have thought about doing previously. Have you ever looked back on anything you once did with a significant other and thought, “WTF?!”.

    Perhaps I am a little out of touch with the haze that surrounds you in the beginning of a new relationship. In a moment of excitement, such as the honeymoon phase, deciding what to have for dinner can seem epic and I understand that entirely. I suppose what does not sit comfortably with me are the cliché scenarios that are bound to pop up whilst you first start dating someone.

    You may not believe it, as I have only focused on negatives here, but I would refer to myself as a romantic, and one that enjoys being whisked up in a whirlwind. I am just praying for a bit more originality when the time comes. I certainly have some cards up my sleeve in the waiting line. Do you feel like we need a dating revolution? A re-vamp? Or do you favour the more traditional, predictable routes?

    It is understandable if the activity was already high on your other half’s interest list, and you made a compromise to do something together, but it’s when you find an old photo and think, “who was it that was into croquet?!”. I think it’s particularly interesting that during the honeymoon phase, a time when we share our own interests with one another, it’s often during this time we like the idea of trying something new and hope to both enjoy it, as it can then become our “thing”.

    For instance, one thing that makes me smirk is when we first get together with someone, we may find it a fabulous idea to go and visit a castle in the countryside. Let’s go for a drive in the countryside and walk around a castle. Happy smiley selfies with eroding bricks in the background to follow. Brilliant. I may be a princess but I gave up castles when they finished on the school outing syllabus, aged 9. There are just some things in life that I don’t believe have any benefit to seeing in the flesh over a photograph. Especially where the UK is concerned. A castle’s gift shop is never as grand as you want it to be (other than its prices), and nobody wants a souvenir where that sh** is made ON SITE, and probably went past its use by like yesteryear.

    I suppose you are limited by your location and facilities available in some instances, but what I am trying to understand is surely during a time of prime opportunity of getting to know one another, it’s often that we favour distraction and not attraction. I also have a few problems with some of our more traditional date settings too…

    The Cinema. Alternatively we could just put a film on at home, and not talk to each other for the next two hours without having to leave the house or spend money on transport and a ticket? Am I the only one that finds the cinema the most unromantic thing ever? Specifically for a date. Paying to sit in a room full of strangers, and essentially watch TV with them, whilst not saying a word to the person you’re actually there with. As for the “whole experience”- If it’s a movie we’re watching then I would rather that experience, be without queues, over priced drinks (and it’s not even alcohol) and breathing in other peoples demon popcorn breath.

    Kids at the age of 14 now look about 25 so makes it more annoying when they don’t get asked for I.D and continue to hold the screening hostage to their moronic teenage outbursts. To be fair my friend and I did the same thing at that age when Lord of the Rings first came out. From the moment the movie started playing, we continued to apply minty lip gloss that glared back at the bright screen like beacons and pulled crazy wide mouthed faces every time the screaming horses had a scene.

    Picnic. Even the word aggravates me. Picnic picnic picnic. Blergh. I love the idea of a gorgeous summer’s day and arriving somewhere picturesque, slow motion holding a pastel coloured sun umbrella. My silk shawl sliding down my shoulders as I place the wicker hamper down on the tartan blanket. But no- the basket is fricking heavy… okay so the carrier bags are heavy. There is way too much food and EVERYTHING appears to have been marinated in mayonnaise so will have to be thrown away after more than an hour in the heat. Some form of nature; a dog, bee, baby, etc. is going to ruin the ambience and moment of calm and it’s really stressful even thinking about this right now.

    “Hey bebe, let’s watch the sun-set tonight”. Unless you’re in an amazing part of the world, or it’s a special day, I’m not going to go out my way to book an appointment with something that happens every day. I would find the whole thing far much more romantic if this scenario was organic and the sun just so happened to be setting with wet sand between our toes on the other side of the planet. Personally, I am more of a sun-riser kinda guy anyway. Maybe now I’m just being a bit difficult.

  • COLUMN | A Difficult Spot

    One thing that I looked forward to about ageing was the absence of spots. I imagined that there was a magical age, twenty-five perhaps, where my skin would clear up and I’d be totally blemish free. It was a false hope. I’m in my early forties and am sporting a ridiculous collection of pimples around my mouth.

    I managed to miss acne vulgaris. I was lucky enough not to suffer those rashes and colonies of ugly spots during my teenage years. What I got instead was the uber-zit. I’d grow these massive headless spots that would take root and stick around sending me running for the nearest chemist to peruse the chemical warfare agents that promised clearer skin. I had two giant spots on the end of my nose for so long during my late teens that I christened them (Bette and Joan if you must know: they were bickering mean spots).

    I scoured my skin with bright pink lotions that left me with a complexion like a flaky pastry sausage roll but the spots remained, red and shiny as ever. I applied medical concealer that was designed for the cast of TOWIE (i.e. bright orange). Having a bright orange, powdery pimple was clearly so much more discrete. I applied acidic lotions that burned and sizzled but seemed to feed the spots. I avoided grease and chocolate, ate fruit, drank water and squeezed/didn’t squeeze till I was blue (and still spotty) in the face.

    The advent of facial hair made things worse. The spots would come and go and were occasionally joined by their more vicious friends: the ingrowing hairs. The only delight with these is the sating of my love of picking and prodding. Hot flannels and savage attacks garner a lot o satisfaction.

    I’m less vain and self-conscious than in my youth and I have a more philosophical outlook to things. I tend to go with the phrase: It is what it is.

    I’ll sport my pimples with pride today. I don’t love my glue sniffer type rash but I can take it. It’ll go in time.

  • COLUMN | Everything old is new again

    Every summer our movie reviewer Roger Walker-Dack re-locates to Provincetown on the tip of Cape Cod in Massachusetts. In fact he is there right now to cover their International Film Festival exclusively for THEGAYUK.

    This rather stunning small coastal town that is a prime vacation destination has a fun packed calendar that has literally special events for everyone from Bears to Circuit Boys, to Women of Color & Gay Family Week to ensure that all shades of LGBT people are catered for. But away from silver screen I have noticed a surprising new trend in the roster of entertainers who are flocking to perform on all the main stages here. Whilst there are still most of the regular stars such as the impeccably hot Well Strung Quartet who play as well as they look, so many of the new stars this year are very old indeed.

    So old in fact that it’s a wonder that these legendary Broadway stars can, and are still, performing. At the top of the scale is the original Hello Dolly Miss Carol Channing who is now 92 years old. She is at least sharing her stage with a much younger performer, the long-legged Tommy Tune who’s barely 75 years old. The potty-mouth Joan Rivers who clocks in at 80 years old will be here, so will jazz singer and favorite guest on the late Johnny Carson’s Show, Miss Marilyn Maye who will be 86 years old.

    Donna McKenrick who won a Tony in the original version of A Chorus Line is still doing the high kicks at age 71, and then the week later Helen ‘I am Woman’ Reddy, the queen of 70’s pop and who is now 72, will be doing her stuff.

    One of the youngest of this bunch of Tony Award winners is Liza Minnelli with just 68 years under her belt is probably the most likely one to send a sick note instead especially as she is now more famous for the concerts she cancels than the ones she performs. And then there is Andrea McArdle the original Annie and who is STILL singing The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow as she has done for the past 36 years, is a mere 50 years old.

    P Town does have this wonderful joyous spirit and real sense of community that is both embracing and encompassing. I’m sure then if one of these Grand Dames doesn’t show then they will be generous and forgiving, and at the very least send out one of the plethora of the local talented Drag Queens who can probably do a better Liza (or Carol) than they can do themselves.

  • COLUMN | Beware The Man Of Mystery

    Is a man of mystery sexy? Or is there something a little bit more sinister going on behind his smoky allure? You may ask or question if mystery is still even achievable with pretty much our life stories being available via a bit of Google and Facebook detective work. But the kind of mystery that I am typing about is that which belongs to a person who face-to-face only gives you glimpses into their soul and small pieces of a puzzle. You may never get all the pieces of the puzzle, and if you do, the final picture will look like a poor man’s Picasso.

    Beware the man of mystery. Mr. Mysterious may strike you as intriguing, challenging, perhaps described by others as a tough nut to crack. So if you find that you are beginning to lose yourself in his eyes, and are interested in knowing more about him, then just be careful how much of yourself you are trading in return for their portion regulated control. Every piece of information divulged is surely to be orchestrated and rehearsed. A man who feels at home basking in the air of others uncertainty and gets off on thinking about you thinking about him, is usually the dullest person you will ever encounter. I’m sure that description has just brought someone you know, or have known, forward in your mind.

    Mystery is not to be confused with one being shy either. A shy guy will seem socially uncomfortable, perhaps not overly keen on too much eye contact etc. Mr Mysterious, will be quite comfortable in kicking back and resting his feet waiting for you to flock and delve into a conversation with him. Mr Mysterious will maintain eye contact and control any silence in conversation making your brain do the overtime and make you do all the effort. Essentially he cannot be bothered and is used to having things and people served to him on a platter for his perusal.

    Mystery is created, because they don’t actually know who they are or have a lot to say about themselves. They are more likely to speak about the present and what is happening in the now. When speaking about the future it is usually sprayed with a rainbow neon finish creating an exciting, colourful, and idyllic end goal. The past is glazed over like it never even happened and you’re likely to only ever see pinholes of childhood and “previous life”. This allows you to imagine, create, fantasise about who they could be, which immediately makes them seem more interesting than what they actually are.

    This man may appear emotionally like a broken bird. Do NOT feed the birds. It is you who will end up broken in your quest to fix them, should your nature be of the “fixing” kind, like mine. Although I am sure you had already come to the conclusion that I speak here from personal experience.

    The idea of mystery sounds great to begin with, and has always been bigged up by romantics; mysterious eyes, tall / dark / handsome etc. What even are mysterious eyes? What would they look like? To define mysterious in the dictionary, it reads; “difficult or impossible to understand, explain, or identify”. So it would seem that the word mysterious may be used in place of a more creative description that escapes the person paying the “compliment”. Not so sassy. I will literally puke or punch if I’m told I have mysterious eyes. Alternatively, awkwardly challenge them on their choice of words. It’s unlike me to not just sit back and lap up a “compliment”- but for me this expression is an absolute compliment / conversational sin.

    Perhaps we perceive mysterious eyes as an attractive attribute, as eyes are commonly linked to the soul, and if they are perceived as mysterious – then it means we are protected, and hidden away from open fire. In our open book society, we may tend to latch onto anything that would suggest we are akin to an enigma or the unknown.

    In reality all mystery is, is withheld simple, straightforward information that isn’t very significant at all if it were to be said normally. But the fact that you cannot get to the information makes it seem much bigger than what it really is. When simple information isn’t shared with us we then start to build a complex about what other information may be withheld, which does not set a great footprint for the beginning of any friendship or relationship.

    I suppose I personally am at a time in my life where I want life to be as straightforward as it possibly can be. I do want to settle down, and have adopted a zero-tolerance regime when it comes to a time waster. The problem I have with “mysterious men” is that there is never really a commitment from that person. They keep their options open just in case something better comes their way but will use you to their advantage in the run up to the inevitable demise. By never revealing themselves wholly they remain guarded and detached.

    And actually, I no longer have the time to try and crack these tough nuts, it is boring. You either want to share that information and yourself with me, or you do not. The great Oscar Wilde once said, “the true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible”. Life can actually be very simple if we allow it to be. This is why Mr Mysterious, is not for me.