THEGAYUK

Category: Column

  • COMMENT | Anyone quoting anything from the bible as fact, is someone we all should be very worried about

    COMMENT | Anyone quoting anything from the bible as fact, is someone we all should be very worried about

    LET’S start from the very beginning! Columnist Aled, from Justaled.com takes us back to the start

    Such a tragic musical reference and yet a modest cliché!

    Turning 30 something this year, really has opened my eyes to most things in my life, in particular my continual and monotonous reimagining that is my single life and the difficulties of dating other gay men in wales.

    This is probably just a situation that I’m personally experiencing due to me being naturally overly fussy and will eventual die a lonely old queen surrounded by Japanese pugs and French bulldogs.

    But isn’t being fussy ok?

    Why should I just date someone for the sake of dating?

    Why settle down with any Tom, Dick or Harry!

    Some have quoted, my mother to be more precise, that beggars cannot be choosers, I’m still not sure if this is an underhanded, and yet viperous comment designed by mother dearest as an indirect but equally direct insult?

    I’m in the early stages of my 30s and have, what can only be described as, a rather eclectic life, and I feel I’m forever seeking a new way or new platform to vent, especially when it comes to my tragic attempt to seeking a suitable life partner.

    I was a considerable a late bloomer when I decided to exit the closet, jump onto the vega bus and enter the fabulous world of all things homosexual.

    During my teens I became a recluse, living in my bedroom, away from my family, almost like a queer version of Harry Potter, forever holding onto my own wand, actually! Exactly like Harry Potter! I also have the scarred forehead to prove it.

    I went to school, came home, and if I wasn’t out with my straight mates! Lads lads! I would be locked away from the world, locking away the truth that was inside of me, a truth that I was not ready or wanting to release to the world.

    I come from a working-class background, with my family, being devout Labour supporters who had very strong views on such things as the traditional male and female roles, moderate racism and of course the dislike, or to be clearer, the ignorance and misunderstanding to homosexuality.

    These are people who lived during the 80s and the AIDS epidemic and not forgetting the horrific propaganda the media created. So naturally, they were under the illusion that all gay men had, or had the possibility spreading the disease through simple means such as touch or possibly a slight graze of the shoulder, thankfully we know we now know better, well I hope we do.

    My family home was like Piccadilly circus, people would come and go by the droves. My parents were and still are popular people in the village as well as my dad has his own business on site, and so we always had friends or customers in the house.

    In my early teens, I remember people conversing in the kitchen about gay men or gay men that they knew of at the time. Poofs, Fairies, Arse bandits were just a few of the terms I had heard being used to describe gay men as well as how dirty and filthy they were.

    “It was Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve,” a man in the house disclaimed.

    “It says in the bible, that man shall not lay with another man”, said a white-haired, white middle-class white pensioner.

    “Oh, he’s one of them” a very common saying, I still wonder what is one of them? What is a them?

    “Your arse is for shitting not for shoving things, like a cock up there, can you imagine having shit on you cock, sweet corn in your J**’s eye,” this was the comments from probably one of the most disgusting human beings I’ve ever met.

    Hopefully, from these wonderfully toxic quotes, you will understand why it became rather difficult to come out in my household.

    A place where I should have felt safe in coming out yet surrounded by some of the most homophobic humans on the planet.

    I must at this stage mention, that these comments were made mostly by the visitors and not of my parents, however, they cannot deny using the terms poof or fairy! To this very day, the word fairy offends me and I will attack you if used… You’ve been warned.

    From my understanding, anyone quoting anything from the bible as fact is someone, we all should be very worried about.

    Quoting passages from the Bible as fact is the equivalent of me going around quoting a chapter from Harry Potter, however I’m pretty sure Harry Potter is by far more factual than the Bible but that’s just my opinion.

    If there were, say a Steve living in the Garden of Eden then maybe Adam could have stayed with him when Eve ate the forbidden fruit. And anyway, if you truly read the Bible, then you would know how much God actually dislikes women, forever portraying them as people who are not to be trusted, devious whores and of course prostitutes.

    I digress, my disagreements with the Bible is an on-going battle, mainly between myself and my mother, the devout Christian.

    For years, people and when I say people I mainly mean the straights, have disagreed with the way the LGBTQ+ community have lived their lives.

    Their dislike and hatred of our community has always fathomed me,

    Why the hate?

    How is the love between same sex couples having an effect on their lives?

    I believe this is the million-pound question which I don’t think, well not in my lifetime, we will ever come to terms with, but I mainly blame ridiculous religious notions and of course those who take the word of God as factual, blabbing about a mystical man in the sky who impregnates a young girl from a far. But like I said, I digress!

    I repressed my sexuality from my teens to my early 20s until one day, one intoxicated and moderately medicated trip to Amsterdam, resulted in a tragically poor attempt to end my life.

    As you see, before your very own eyes, I live, I breathe and of course I’m fabulous.

    In the long run, the attempt was differed by my is who I eventually came out to as being “bisexual”, foolishly what I thought at the time was the first stage of acceptance for a closeted and repressed homosexual, however these were baby steps, for me and of course my family, however mother and father were still yet to find out.

    Don’t forget to check out my latest blog post on justled.com, updated weekly.

  • COMMENT | Here’s why I write a blog

    COMMENT | Here’s why I write a blog

    Justaled.com – Blogging, a millennial therapy!

    Like most of us in life, we all either want to be some sort of writer or have that the urge to release our inner novel to the words and become the next George R.R Martin.

    I was, I must admit, about to suggest, JK Rowling, as my example author, however, as a member of the fabulous LGBTQ community I struggle to accept her idiotic and ridiculous views and notions on the trans community, even though I was and at somewhat, still am a big fan of the Harry Potter series.

    I am not trans myself, however, I fully believe and support my trans brothers and sisters.

    We are who we are, we can be whoever we want to be and we should not need to justify ourselves to those narrow-minded individuals in this world. However, this is easier said and done. But I digress from my initial post.

    I’ve been writing on and off for a few years. I find it’s a great form of self-therapy for me.

    Writing gives me a platform to express myself and to release that internal monologue from inside my mind.

    Since lockdown, I’ve created my blog called, Justaled.com, with the main aim to publish my life and life experiences to the world.

    The blog is designed to be open and honest about the situations that I have personally faced as a single, gay man living in a small village in Wales.

    At this stage, you’re probably wondering, this isn’t very exciting, this is a very standard issue for any gay man in Wales and we have all probably shared the same experiences throughout our lives, but then again, have we?

    The blog started initially as a private journal but having been a performer and working in the Arts, it soon began to slowly transform into a draft idea for a potential one-man play, but still, it was missing something.

    The more I wrote; the realisation became more and more clearer to me.

    I am constantly writing, but nobody is reading my work! and the reason nobody is reading my work is quite simple, my writing doesn’t go anywhere, apart from the inner depths of my hard drive.

    That’s when I thought, during the lockdown, why not publish my story online, in a platform that I can control, and that’s when Justaled.com was born.

    Writing gives me a voice and a platform to express myself.

    ​For those who know me personally, will say that, I am very open, honest and quite frankly a loud mouth sociality, But, when it comes to things such as life experiences, mental health status and matters of the heart I can and have the tendency to bottle these things up.

    I truly have the tendency, like most men, unfortunately, bottle up and keep my issues and feelings to myself until my issues and feelings bottleneck.

    And like a well shook bottle of champagne, my issues and feelings eventually, and of course dramatically, uncontrollably erupt.

    I’m 33, and I have already experienced two nervous breakdowns in my life, one of which I’ve recently blogged about and the other due to bullying in the workplace, another post I’m considering writing.

    I will add at this stage that bullying in any capacity is WRONG and should not be tolerated or ignored, especially in the workplace.

    I idolised the film, The Devil Wears Prada, until one day I worked for a woman who
    embodied the character, Maranda Priestley.

    I want you to imagine Maranda Priestly, assuming you’ve watched the film, but now imagine her 10 times worse, a walking and talking force of negativity, designed to crush and belittle anyone that stood in her way.

    To this day I cannot watch the Devil Wears Prada, and I have promised myself I will NEVER be put in that situation ever again!

    With life and age, I’m constantly learning from my mistakes hence the writing, or to be more precise the blogging of my past and current life events. I truly find it’s a great platform to vent.

    To be quite frank, blogging is a great form of therapy! Plus, it’s cheaper than going to the Shrink!

    Not only is writing a great way to express our emotions and feelings via words but it’s also a great way to be creative and let our mind and imaginations run wild.

    A great friend of mine once told me to start writing, but write about what you truly know the best, and fortunately for me, what I know best is in fact, me!

    I know me, I truly understand me. I think a lot more of us, from time to time need to take the time to focus on ourselves.

    It’s not selfish, it’s not vain but we truly need some ‘me time’. Time to properly reflect on what we need. If someone says its selfish and vain then pfff ignore them, unfriend them or whatever, you seriously don’t need them or their negativity in your life.

    So… to recap from my standard form of ranting, this guest blog post, from yours truly sums up the following:

    ​Get writing, be more open and honest about yourself and your issues, there is nothing to be ashamed about.

    Blogging is a great form of self-evaluating if not a great form of venting. Speaking directly to the gentlemen reading this post, gents its OK not to be OK, just let it out, talk about your issues and feeling, and if you can’t talk, then write them down.

    Nobody needs to see your internal monologue, because quite frankly that’s what a blog is, but then again sharing can equally be rewarding.

    As they say, sharing is caring and your words could be the answers to the questions of another seeking guidance.

    Get blogging!

    Aled xx

  • The Difficult Second Column

    The Difficult Second Column

    I know, when popstars come to writing their second album it’s often referred to as the “difficult second album”. Who would’ve thought I’d have that problem when it came to be writing this little column for you all?

    I suppose, I would like to start by saying – Thank you! I have received a lot of love on social media about it, and I think it’s done the job I wanted it to do by making people ask questions as to whether they are doing enough to help support their local communities. It’s important now, more than ever, that we continue to invest in our safe spaces and show them some appreciation. This lockdown and epidemic has been tough on everybody and we’re all bound to be anxious over what this new normal is going to be, and how we will have to adapt to a socially distant society. We all need to show a bit of love, support and understanding, and show we care.

    The best thing to come out of having this column, is having a voice within the community – which, is a little strange to me, because for a long time when I moved to London, I didn’t feel like I really belonged to the community.

    I really struggled to find my place.

    silhouette, girl, dance
    Photo by geralt on Pixabay

    Deep down, I knew I was gay when I was in my early teenage years, but I didn’t have a role model or any form of support to help support me. I’d never been to a gay bar before I moved to London. To this day, I can remember my first proper night out on the Gay Scene in London. I’d been in London for a couple of weeks at that point, and I was so eager to experience all the very thing I had spent my summer researching. It wasn’t even a conventional night out with my university course mates. I met a bloke on Grindr one Saturday afternoon and he’d invited me to meet him for a few drinks in Soho and he offered to show me around. He was a nice enough guy, I didn’t fancy him, and there was nothing sexual about it. He was just a few years older than me, and it was really nice to meet someone who was happy to show me around and introduce me to the scene.

    It was painfully obvious to me that night that I would have a problem really fitting in with the “scene”. I knew I was different to everybody else. I knew that my size was going to hold me back. Being a fat guy, it almost labels us automatically as being unattractive and unworthy of attention. I remember being on the dance floor in Heaven that Saturday night, both having an incredible night in a space that felt safe, and yet feeling completely alone.

    There were so many six-packs and chiselled bodies and then there’s me, in an oversized top from Primark and comfortable jeans, trying to hide just enough of my body that I felt comfortable. So, even from the start of my journey of self-discovery it really felt like I was fighting an uphill battle with myself. I look back now and wish at the time I made that conscious decision to make that change when I was younger. Instead, I continued to eat my feelings and I made no attempt to lose weight.

    It wasn’t until my mid-twenties when I started to feel that I was letting myself down and I had to make that change, because I felt I was missing out on important life milestones because I couldn’t find happiness in a relationship.

    It’s clear to me now, that the problems I had stemmed back to my childhood. I was born in 1992, into a middle-class working family, in a very conservative, stuck in the past community. I was at school towards the end of when Section 28 was still in effect and I was heavily bullied as a kid – teachers couldn’t really stop that. Sure, they could reprimand someone for calling me fat, or specky four eyes. But if someone called me a faggot or a queer, which happened quite often, they couldn’t do anything. That really hurt me, and it still does today. They knew that it was wrong, but there weren’t in a position to really combat it.

    The repercussions of Section 28 put young queer kids at risk for not having a sex education that was relevant to them. They didn’t have any understanding or advice as to what a healthy relationship was the for them.

    Some developed worrying behaviour that could put them in danger, such as excessive alcohol and substance abuse as well as sex with much older men, which could sometimes result in a sexually transmitted disease or a positive HIV test result. Teachers now have a duty of care over young people to educate them, and some people still feel a bit angry to this day that they weren’t supported and let down during a crucial and pivotal part in their development and education.

    I guess, I kind of fall into this remit. I was never taught about same-sex relationships in school. It was brushed under the carpet. We were never exposed to that as kids so – we really didn’t understand what these relationships looked like. Our only real understanding of it was from the limited access to queer representation on television.

    We were reduced to watching programmes such as Queer as Folk, which were truly ground-breaking at the time to show such explicit material, under the cover of darkness with the volumes on the lowest possible settings on the TV sets. Representation has improved over recent years, with more and more openly gay people visible on television, and more openly gay character in the mainstream media, paving the way for education for younger generations. It’s put pressures on TV Shows and the Media to show them in a positive and healthy way, to help fight the comeback following section 28.

    We have come a long way since then, but we’ve got a long way to go. LGBT+ characters in mainstream television are often thought as an afterthought by creators, with producers and directors ticking through diversity checklists to make sure there is representation. We exist and we are a part of normal society – represent us as who we are. We’re not all butch lesbians and raging bitchy queens.

    June is Pride Month, and for the first time since the Stonewall riots we are unable to march and celebrate Pride in the way we’ve done in the past. Even in 2020, we see people questioning Pride Month. Sadly, I’ve seen a number of comments on social media from people asking we don’t have a Straight Pride. To me it’s a ludicrous argument.

    When have white heterosexual people ever been discriminated against? When was it illegal to kiss their partner in public? When were they forced from their homes into refugee camps for being straight? When were they killed for being straight? Well, we all know how that turned out when they tried that in America. They don’t have Straight Pride – but they do, however, have International Clown Week – maybe they can attend that?

    The British based charity, Stonewall, posted some statistics online in early 2020 stating which I found to be staggering and pretty upsetting. Stonewall posted statistics stating that; 26% of lesbian, gay or bisexual people alter their behaviour to hide their sexual orientation in order to avoid becoming the victim of a hate crime. 48% of trans people under the age of 26 said that they had attempted suicide, and 30% of those had done so. A staggering 59% said that they had considered doing so, and finally – a quarter of the world’s population believes that being LGBT should be a crime – and although we’ve come a long way in sixty years – shows that there is a long way still to go in our fight.

    For me, the future starts with education.

    Wokandapix / Pixabay

    Relationships are something that should be taught in schools, and children have a right to understand that same-sex relationships are a perfectly normal thing. It should be taught that it’s normal to have two mummies or two daddies. Having an LGBT-inclusive education ensures that those with LGBT families see themselves reflected in what they learn. It also will encourage all young people to grow with inclusive and accepting attitudes. It will also teach them about what a safe and healthy relationships look like and how to have them. Better reflecting the world in which we live in, and subsequently covering important issues like consent and online safety.

    Having this understanding from a younger age, can only help to stamp out homophobia. It’s not going to be a cure, but I hope it goes a long way.

    There has been no evidence, that I have been able to find, to suggest that predators have used the provisions of the Equality Act 2010

    To further our movement, we have to continue to call out bigotry, homophobia and hypocrisy when we see it. A Tory MP posted a message on social media to celebrate Pride Month – immediately, its hypocrisy was called out. If there is one thing in this world, I cannot stand is a double standard. You cannot show messages of support for our community, when your government is actively looking to roll back Trans rights by scrapping a review of the Gender Recognition Act. It just doesn’t work that way! Trans people have been using toilets, or trying on clothes in changing rooms, accessing domestic violence support, and getting on with their lives as for as long as single-sex spaces have existed.

    There has been no evidence, that I have been able to find, to suggest that predators have used the provisions of the Equality Act 2010 to gain access to women’s spaces. If there was, then it would be shouted from the rooftops by anti-transgender lobbies.

    Trans men are men, Trans women are women. The same government promised to ban Gay Conversion therapy two years ago – and yet we’re still waiting.

    So, whilst I’ve got this voice, I am going to use it as a platform to help forward our movement in any way that I can. We’re also going to keep it light and entertaining. You’ll get to hear some of my crazy overseas stories, find out what makes me tick and what rubs me up the wrong way.

    I want to give you an honest reflection of my life – share some of my experiences and tell you more about my disastrous attempts at finding love. I hope you enjoy the journey!

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | The first time I had my heart broken

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | The first time I had my heart broken

    The summer of 2002. A year after I’d come out to my parents with no fanfare. It was also the year when Sex and the City only had EIGHT episodes in that year’s season. Devastated. All because Sarah Jessica Parker was pregnant. So selfish.

    I’d just fallen in love with a guy. It was the first time I’d been in love. Although with the benefit of hindsight, I don’t think I was truly in love. But it made my heart feel good all the same. 

    His name was Darren. I remember thinking he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He had the most glorious mop of blonde hair and my god, he was sodding tall.

    And that was the moment I had my education in the tall guy, huge cock lesson of life. It was so wide, I could barely get my mouth round it. And for those who know me personally, know how big my gob is. Say no more.

    But I digress here. I wasn’t supposed to get to the tale of his penis yet. But thinking about it again after all these years, got me all excited. And I just couldn’t wait to tell you all.

    Darren was the year above me at college. An older man. I was only 17 and he was 18. I felt so sophisticated bagging myself a bloke who was a whole year older than me. 

    To add to the sophistication and class of the situation, I got my gay best friend from college, Khan, to test the waters for me. I was far too shy to ask him out myself. I hadn’t quite grown into my SAMANTHA confidence stakes yet. 

    Getting the green light from Khan, I found myself on the most romantic date of my life. In case that doesn’t translate from the page, that was sarcasm. He took me for lunch at GREGGS.

    To this day, I’m still partial to a Greggs. I can never have just one item either. It always has to be a chicken tikka baguette, a pizza slice and an apple Danish. Fat fuck, I know. But I’ve never been obsessed with having a Muscle Mary body.

    Although it took me a few years after Darren, before I could step inside a Greggs store without a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. Melodramatic I know, but I was a teenage boy, in love for the first time. Forgive me. 

    In the afternoon after ‘THAT’ date, I found myself in a massive cliché. We ended up behind the bike sheds and before you could say ‘steak bake’, he had his tongue down my throat.

    Whoever coined the phrase, ‘you have to kiss a few frogs before you meet your prince’, was right on the money. For this bike shed fumble was exactly what I imagined kissing a frog would be like. 

    He clearly hadn’t had enough to eat at Greggs, as he seemed to make the decision to eat half my face. His lips engulfed my lips. AND my nose. AND my cheekbones. 

    I surfaced from the kiss with a redraw face. It had been sucked to within an inch of its life. I thought he was about to take my face and stick it in the back of a car window. And with the amount of saliva I appeared to have on my face, even a hacksaw wouldn’t have prised me off that window.

    I was dating a face sucker. But I decided I could train him to keep his mouth on my lips ONLY. And besides, I idolised him.

    We had a few more lunch dates in Greggs. What can I say? I’m a cheap date. And then he started inviting me round to his house when his parents went out for the night. Very illicit and teenage-esque.

    And this is when I came face to face with the tree trunk. AKA, his penis. I must say, for a few years after Darren had left my life, many men were a disappointment to me in the trouser department. Until I came to the realisation that Darren was an exception to most men. He had an exceptionally large manhood.

    My new found love was all going swimmingly. I was planning the house we would live in, how many kids we would have and what our wedding would be like. Before anyone judges me, remember I was a 17 year old teenager, experiencing my first taste of love.

    And then it all came crashing down around me. Khan had bumped into Darren on a night out.

    Darren grabbed Khan’s face and tried to kiss him. Khan pulled away.

    “I love you. Not Mark”, the bastard declared. Sorry, I mean Darren.

    Khan walked away from Darren and decided he should do the decent thing and inform me immediately. He phoned me and told me he needed to see me. I went to pick him up in my Toby Talbot.

    He told me of the night’s events and I melodramatically exited the car, a la Sex and the City style. And I cried in the street. My heart broke and as tears streamed down my face, I wondered if my heart would ever mend.

  • COMMENT | Being homosexual is not a commodity you can buy online

    COMMENT | Being homosexual is not a commodity you can buy online

    I saw a homophobic comment on Twitter today that really made me angry and I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I had to retaliate. 

    “I don’t mind you lot being gay as long as you don’t promote it to my children.”

    Oh yes, because it’s advertised on big billboards and television adverts. “BE GAY. BUY YOUR SEXUALITY ONLINE TODAY!” We even have Buy one Get One Free sales in some of the supermarkets. I don’t think. The idiocy and bigotry of some people really gets on my goat.

    Have we not evolved enough by now that people cannot see? Homosexuality comes as part of your gene package. It’s not a choice or a bargain you can pick up in Harrods. The sheer fact that there are still many human beings who do not feel brave enough to ‘come out’ proves we cannot choose who we are. You cannot pick your sexuality. If you could, why do we hear these endless heartbreaking stories of people who commit suicide or are in ‘straight’ marriages just because they can’t face their homosexuality?

    As for promoting it to children. I have three nephews. My eldest is almost 18 and we are incredibly close. When he was growing up, we would go to the theatre, football matches and restaurants together. At eight years old, he asked if I was gay. We never lied to him. 

    So he has lived in the knowledge that his Uncle Mark is gay for a decade. He has had a couple of sexual encounters with girls and a girlfriend. We obviously haven’t turned him gay by educating him about different sexualities from an early age. I’ve been surrounded by a football-mad family all my life. And I still can’t stand football. 

    So would this Twitter troll who says we should not promote homosexuality to children for fear we will turn them gay like to stand up please. And admit your statement is ludicrous and unfounded. Otherwise, why are my nephews not gay? Because you can’t choose it, that’s why.

    What we are actually achieving by being honest and teaching children that not everyone conforms to the straight mould is enhancing the world with acceptance. And hopefully saving some of these poor souls who are too scared to accept their own sexuality.

    In fact, I jokingly called myself a poof recently. My nephew and his same age best friend told me off for using such language. “It’s not PC!”, they shouted at me. Now that was refreshing.

    And this is the kind of valuable gain we get from promoting homosexuality to children, Mr Twitter Troll.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY – How I came out to my parents

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY – How I came out to my parents

    It was the summer of 2001. Bridget Jones’ Diary had just been released at Easter and Tullene and myself had already seen it five times. It was a few weeks until my 18th birthday and I’d just passed my driving test.

    I can still remember my first car to this day. It was a Talbot. I don’t even know if that make of car is still in existence. Car make and models are not my specialist subject. It was my pride and joy though, a beautiful silver colour and I called it Toby. Toby the Talbot.

    I bought it off my mum’s mate, Barbara for fifty quid. Apparently she didn’t want to charge me anything but my mother insisted she make me pay something. She was very keen on teaching me the value of money!

    Many a night after the passing of my driving test, Tullene and I, along with our fellow best friends Amber and Gemma would often be found driving aimlessly around Central London. Well, it was something to do. We clearly thought we were hard nuts.

    We’d blare Destiny’s Child’s ‘Bootylicious’ from the car CD player, windows down, partying through the polluted London streets in my Toby. 

    I remember one particular night when we stopped at some traffic lights on Oxford Street. I hung out the window with a frying pan. (Don’t ask me why we had a frying pan in the car. We were 17!) Clutching onto the random cooking utensil, I asked a woman if she fancied a fry up. I’m guessing she didn’t fancy one by the disgusted look she threw my way.

    The lights turned green and we sped off towards Bond Street. The woman looked at us as though we’d escaped from the asylum and we all laughed hysterically. Oh the idiocy of youth.

    I’ve completely digressed off the subject of my coming out story to my parents but I feel describing my beautiful Toby Talbot is important in setting the scene. He played a vital role in the story.

    I was fast approaching my 18th birthday and I’d fallen in love with a boy in the year above me at college. Darren. But he’s a story for a later date. I decided that before I declared my love for Darren, I had to tell my mum and dad I was gay. 

    I pulled up outside Tullene’s house and beeped my horn. I heard Mummy Pat (Tullene’s mum) shout out the window. “Keep the noise down!” Tullene came running out the house and jumped in Toby.

    “We’re going to see Mummy and Daddy Woollard”, I told her.

    “Why?”

    “Tonight’s the night.”

    Being my best friend, she knew exactly what I meant. I couldn’t do it on my own. I needed Tullene by my side. And she still is by my side through most dramas, twenty years later.

    Driving onto the council estate where I lived, I could feel my hands getting clammy and beads of sweat on my forehead. Yes, I could sweat back then. I was only 17 remember and hadn’t a need for botox yet.

    We parked outside the back gate and Tullene went to open the passenger door. 

    “NOT YET!” I screamed, unnecessarily loudly. I saw her wig nearly hit the roof as she jumped as a reaction to my bellowing.

    I say wig and not head, as Tullene has a vast collection of wigs that she adorns on her scalp. She would be the envy of any drag queen. She has a hairpiece for every occasion.

    “I need a cigarette to calm my nerves.”

    I grabbed a Marlboro light from my glove box and puffed on it like my life depended on it. 

    How could that 17-year-old boy afford Marlboro lights?, I hear you cry. Well, this was 2001 remember and they were only £3.99 for a packet of twenty in those days. I don’t smoke any longer but I believe they are about twelve quid a pack now. I don’t know how anyone affords to smoke these days.

    As we sat there, chugging on a ciggy, I saw my sister Clare pull up in her car. She had a purple Fiesta which was later to become my car after Toby Talbot went up to motor vehicle heaven. And she would become Fiona Fiesta.

    “What are you doing out here?” Clare enquired as she came up to say hello.

    “I’ve got something to tell mum and dad.”

    “What?”

    “I’m gay.”

    “Okay then. Let’s go inside and tell them.”

    I lost my bottle. I quickly started the engine and swore my sister to secrecy. And then me and Tullene sped off. Driving around Central London, I heard a beep from my Nokia 3310 to indicate a text message. It soon became apparent my sister was no good at keeping secrets.

    “Read the message to me Tullene.”

    It was from my mum.

    “We still love you”, it said.

    And there you have it. No fanfares or whistles in this coming out story. Just a sister with a big gob.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY – That time I got pissed on

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY – That time I got pissed on

    The year Mark Haddon’s novel “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” was published. The year Dirty Den made his comeback in EastEnders. And the year Jemini entered the Eurovision Song Contest with “Cry Baby.” The song which gained the worst placing ever for the United Kingdom. I personally quite like the song. It’s even on my iPod to this day.

    It was also the year when I still considered myself to be dateable. I had been with my current boyfriend for almost six months and I was head over heels in love. I thought I was going to marry this man, Sam.

    We first met when I was still a customer service manager for Budgens’ supermarket and he worked in the hairdressers next door. I would often walk past the salon, slyly looking through the window using only my peripheral vision. And more often than not, I would see him staring back at me. And then I would feel my heart flutter inside my chest.

    SHEER CHEESE, I know, but I was still a hopeless romantic back then. Years of unsuccessful dating hadn’t yet made me bitter or cynical. 

    One day, I finally plucked up the courage to ask him out. Well, I say I plucked up the courage. What actually happened was that I made my friend Tullene go inside the salon to hand him a piece of paper. On said piece of paper, I had written my phone number.

    That night, I was pissed in the local pub. Quelle Surprise! And up popped a text. Yes, a text. Not a WhatsApp. It was 2003 remember. It was from the hairdresser of my dreams. I was so excited and almost hyperventilated. Tullene had to give me a little slap.

    Before I knew it, I was in G-A-Y at the Astoria on a date! YES, The Astoria! Oh my god. How I miss that place. All through my late teens and right into my twenties, I would spend Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights in there, dancing the night away. I look back and I think, ‘how on earth did I afford to be out that much?’ And then I remember double vodkas were only £1.50 and you could get a blow job for a quid.

    No, you youngsters reading, prostitutes were not that cheap back in 2003. A Blow Job was a delicious shot available in many gay venues. It may well still be in this day and age but my clubbing days are over, so I’m less informed of the shot menu of gay establishments.

    For those who have never had a Blow Job, make one at home. Pour Amaretto in the base of a shot glass and top with coffee liqueur. Layer Irish Cream on top of that and then squirt on some whipped cream. Delicious! I might actually make one tonight now. It will certainly be the first blow job I’ve had in a while. Cue violins.

    Anyway, I’ve digressed. This is meant to be a tale of being pissed on and not actually being PISSED.

    After six months of sheer cheesy love and romance, I decided it was time we took a mini-break. So off we went down to my favourite place in the whole of the United Kingdom- West Wittering.

    Driving along the A3, “Crazy in Love” by Beyoncé blaring from the speakers, windows down and the wind blowing through our hair. Yes, I still had hair back then. I hadn’t succumbed to the fate of my Dad’s gene pool quite yet. 

    And out of nowhere, the wind lifted the baseball cap from my bonce and we saw it blowing away down the A3, back towards London. Very Bridget Jones-esque. 

    Lying on the beach, sand between our toes and the sea glistening in the June sunshine, I looked across at my perfect boyfriend and held his hand. I had never felt so happy. I was a naïve 19-year-old and now, almost twenty years later, I can see it was never going to end happily. But hindsight is a wonderful tool.

    To end the peace and romance of the moment, Sam suddenly screamed.

    “OH MY GOD! It’s a Jellyfish!”

    And all of a sudden, I felt a large splat on my chest. The bastard had thrown it at me. Jumping up, I screamed.

    “YOU IDIOT!”

    I saw seaweed fall from my chest to the sand below. It had been a practical joke.

    Within seconds, I had returned the joke by flinging seaweed at his face (yes, his face. No half measures for me, I go straight for the jugular!) I screamed,

    “JELLYFISH!”

    His camp scream and running, well, mincing actually off down the sand made it all worthwhile. A few minutes later, I felt another splat against my chest. Within a few seconds, I felt an intense stinging. As the culprit slipped from my chest, it was clear to see it was an ACTUAL Jellyfish this time.

    “You Prick!” I bellowed as I began to go red and blotchy.

    We went up to the shop, desperate to find some E45. But, not surprisingly, the beach shop didn’t stock it as part of their product range.

    “I could piss on you”, Sam suggested.

    “Now is not the time or place to begin acting out your sexual fantasies!” I retorted.

    He reassured me that urine is apparently a good ointment to deal with a Jellyfish sting. And as this was 2003, I didn’t have the luxury of Google on my Nokia 3310 to support his claims. 

    Desperate, red, itchy and stinging, I threw myself to the floor, well hidden behind my car and Sam whapped his cock out. Before I knew it, my chest was being used as a urinal.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | downloads Plenty of Fish

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | downloads Plenty of Fish

    I do it every Christmas period. For some unbeknown reason, usually around Boxing Day, I decide it might be a good idea to go in search of a husband. I don’t know what comes over me. It must be the excessive plonk consumed over the festive period.

    Or, on a more serious note, it could be the fact that Christmas makes me feel all loved up and warm and fuzzy inside. And gives me the notion that it might actually be nice to fall in love after all.

    Although I must confess I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in requited love. Without wanting anybody to crack out the violins, it has been more years than I care to remember.

    iPhone at the ready… Plenty OF Fish downloaded… And snap.

    So, there I was on Boxing Day night, staring at the present-less Christmas tree, clutching a bottle of Single Malt Scotch Whiskey. Yes, I know it’s rare for anything other than New Zealand savvy B to pass my lips but I do like to treat myself from time to time.

    After my third large Scotch, I stood up determinedly and declared to myself that I would find a husband. Dramatically pressing the buttons on my iPhone, I downloaded Plenty of Fish.

    Obviously, I picked my best photographs and kept my profile simple.

    “Love to laugh, love to have fun. Love the theatre, the beach, swimming, reading and writing. And I love men!”

    Within minutes, a lovely looking chap called Matthew pops up in my inbox. Yes, I know, I just used the word CHAP. I’m clearly getting old. I even used the word DISCO when describing a CLUB the other day.

    Anyway, back to Matthew who seemed rather forward.

    “Let’s video chat”, he insisted.

    Okay, I thought. At least I’ll get to see him in the flesh and it will give me a glimpse of his true personality. It’s so easy to hide behind a keyboard.

    As I pressed accept on the video chat, I saw that he was topless. I was in a two-piece pyjama set but each to their own.

    The call starts off with small talk and then he pans down his pecs and six-pack. What a body, I think to myself.

    And then he comes to his piece de resistance. I see him clutching his fully erect manhood, rather seductively. Now, I’m no prude but in my naivety, I truly believed this video call was to be an initial test to judge our compatibility.

    “Watch me wank!” He bellows through the iPhone screen at me.

    Being the ever-accommodating gay boy, I oblige. But after his voyeurism, I never hear from Matthew again and I notice that he’s blocked me. Bastard.

    Never mind, an extremely cute bloke called Louie pops up into my inbox to distract my attention away from being dumped by Matthew.

    Within seconds, I notice that Louie is probably not looking for a relationship. His profile classes him as straight and looking for a woman. What is it with Plenty of Fish and straight men chasing the homos?

    Well, Louie was beautiful and willing, so who am I to turn down a chat, gay or not? He started the proceedings.

    “Do you want me to wank for you Sir? I’m so horny Daddy. Can I call you Daddy?”

    Being an ex-holiday park entertainer, I’m not one to turn down the chance to partake in performing arts.

    “Yes, you can call me Daddy. And you better respect me”, I typed sniggering.

    “Okay. Tell me what you want me to do Master Daddy.”

    In the meantime, I see another supposedly straight man arrive in my inbox. Terry. He wants me to make a video for him. And he’s certainly precise in his direction. Eat your heart out Stephen Spielberg.

    “Have your legs over your shoulders with your wet fingers running over your juicy hole.”

    Not being an acrobat, I feared I may have problems in obliging. And being a writer, I’m not opposed to engaging in a bit of naughty talk. But I draw the line at dirty videos. You never know when they might come back to bite you on the bum. Pun intended.

    This time I took a leaf out of Matthew’s book and made use of the block feature of the app.

    And then, just as I was about to give up, my fortunes changed. An ‘actual’ gay man sent me a message. Darren. And he asks for no dirty talk or sexually explicit videos. He engages in purely decent conversation, obviously on a quest to find love.

    We spend a few days sending endless messages to each other. It was going so well. We’d even started to arrange a first date.

    He happens to ask me what I’m giving up for Lent. I inform him that I’m giving up swearing.

    “Is your swearing really that bad?” He asks me.

    “I’d be lying if I said the C U Next Tuesday word doesn’t often leave my lips. Back off now if you’re easily offended.”

    And then Darren showed me that he’s also capable of making use of the block button. What a C…

  • This is what it’s like to go on a nudist beach, when you’re a nevernude!

    This is what it’s like to go on a nudist beach, when you’re a nevernude!

    It has to be said. I’m a never-nude.

    CREDIT: Jake Hook / THEGAYUK

    While my boyfriend takes almost every possible moment to whip his clothes off, I’m happy to keep it AbFab Saffy. He says I’m the only person he knows who dresses up to go to bed.

    So the idea of a nudist beach outing isn’t a natural fit for me, my Irish Roman Catholic never-naked family upbringing means that nudity to me is best kept in the dark. But as I’ve always said, “don’t say no, till you give it go”. So on a trip to Australia, I relented to my nagging boyfriend, who had heard there was a gay nude beach somewhere on the shores of Sydney.

    We were 9,445 miles away. No one I know would be there, and at 26 years old I was in my prime.

    Early one morning, we took a ferry to the Taronga Zoo and walked for what seemed like hours. With every step, my protestations got louder and more pronounced. “Did we really need to do this”, “There’s a perfectly nice, findable beach in Manly”, “What’s so special about getting naked anyway?”

    Finally, we found it. Opening up in front of us was a naked haven. It was less of a beach and more of a cove of smooth rocks, facing towards the sea. A bit like a penguin exhibit at a zoo. Numerous, well-placed, seemingly naturally occurring outcroppings of smoothish rocks, perfect for spreading out a towel and basking beneath the Aussie sun. It looked perfect. It looked secluded. At each end, there was a high wall of rocks and thick bush add to the seclusion. Perfect.

    My boyfriend’s little eyes lit up like it was Christmas, Easter, Valentines, New Year’s and Wirral Appreciation Day (he’s from Wirral) all in one. He started removing items of clothes as we picked our way across the rocks to find somewhere to settle.

    I started casually glancing around, more to make sure I had a good footing on the rocks, rather than goggling the naked men on show. There were penises everywhere.

    Some were casually flopping over the owner’s knees, some were neatly nestled in a well-groomed nest of pubic hair. All attached to perfectly bronzed and toned bodies.

    We had found a spot to make camp, my boyfriend literally ran off towards the ocean.

    I was left to undress and sink lower into my own self-loathing.

    I could feel expectant eyes around me. I was, still dressed, very much so. So I began to peel off an item of clothing one item at a time. It was like a very slow, very bizarre Victorian striptease. First flip-flop, second flip-flop and so on until it was just my underwear and nakedness. I was eking out every moment of clothed protection.

    I rooted around in my rucksack for my book. It was chunky. In what can only be described as pure magic, I whipped off my undies and firmly placed the book in front of the crown jewels in one swift, deft move. I was naked save for the book.

    Finally, with my undies still on, I rooted around in my rucksack for my book. It was chunky. In what can only be described as pure magic, I whipped off my undies and firmly placed the book in front of the crown jewels in one swift, deft move. I was naked save for the book. I looked around to see if there had been any signs of approval from the expectant eyes, but they had long bored of my antics and were distracting themselves in other ways.

    I pretended to thumb through my book. My boyfriend called for me to come down to the ocean.

    Could I?

    Could I walk to the ocean… exposed? Between where I was sitting and the shore there must have been about ten meters of rocks.

    Sod it. Do it. What’s the worst that could happen?

    Beneath my book, I gave my little Mr a tug. It’s the tugging that all men give themselves when you need a little something more. You know, in the right circumstances, you add a couple of inches to a flaccid knob.

    Finally, appeased by the length, I remove my book, stand up. I blind everyone. My pale never-nude body is so bright I’m sure it can be seen from space.

    I feel eyes on me. “Turn it around Jake, turn it around”, I coo to myself. In my mind, Sade’s “Smooth Operator” is playing, as I slink towards the shoreline. Not wanting to rush, I make sure each step is sure and solid. My boyfriend is seven meters away from me. He’s waving at me, encouraging me to come to the water’s edge. He’s waist-deep in the water and he’s been playing catch with some others that are in the sea. It looks fun. I want to join them.

    I continue to walk towards the sea. Why did we settle so far back from the shore? I’m five metres away now.

    Four meters… and then, I hear voices. These aren’t the subdued mumbles of the cove’s current inhabitants. No, I can hear children’s laughter and a general hubbub. I can hear a tannoy announcement. I can hear the churning of water from a propeller. From the left side of the cove, a tourist boat’s bow begins to appear.

    I’m three meters from the water now. More and more of the boat begins to show. It’s big. Actually, it’s massive. And there are lots of people on it. All of them with cameras pointed in the direction of the beach. The boat seems so close I’m sure I can hear the individual shutters of a hundred cameras firing.

    Forgetting ‘Smooth Operator’ and my careful footing, I make a dash for the water. Gazelle like, I spring over the last few rocks and dive.

    Into 3 inches of water.

    My pasty ass isn’t even covered with water.

    The tourist boat continues its slow-paced chugging, its slow speed is mocking me. The cameras are still clicking. Eventually, it disappears around the cove.

    My boyfriend is almost drowning with laughter.

    The expectant eyes, attached to waspy mouths are saying something… I think I can hear “oh look, a floating pomme”.

    I die.

  • COMMENT | There are thousands of men just like Phillip Schofield, waiting to come out and that shouldn’t surprise us

    COMMENT | There are thousands of men just like Phillip Schofield, waiting to come out and that shouldn’t surprise us

    The past was deeply homophobic. It drove would be out gays, lesbians and bisexual people deep underground and now is their time to walk, heads held high into the light.

    When I used to volunteer for an LGBT+ helpline, our extensive training outlined how to help young people navigate their coming out experiences at college or how to tell mum and dad that, actually, they weren’t a daughter but a son. We were told that we’d get a lot of these types of calls, but in reality, every shift I volunteered for, I would have at least one, if not two, men of a certain age, grappling with the fact that they had lived a life of lies.

    The story these men would tell would have a regularity to it… They were out walking the dog and another man in the bushes piqued their interest, or while browsing porn online they stumbled upon the GAY button and it opened the floodgates.

    “But why now?” would be the question…

    “What about AIDS?” would often be another question.

    Their concern would also be couched in terms like, “but I’m not gay, I have a wife” – although further conversation would reveal that they had been in a sexless marriage for the best part of twenty years and even when they were in the throes of passion, they felt it never “really clicked”.

    Men in their 50s, 60, 70s and 80s grew up with intense social and legal pressures to be normative.

    It was illegal to be gay in this country until 1967. The AIDS epidemic hit the gay/bisexual community hard from the early 80s. The World Health Organisation only declassified homosexuality as a mental illness in 1992 and the patriarchal nature of our world means only a certain type of man makes it to the top.

    It must have seemed safer to stay in the closet.

    The idea that Phillip Schofield would have had a hint of the success that he’s enjoyed during his career had he come out during his time in the Broom Cupboard is to be dismissed right away. You can imagine the Daily Mail and Sun headlines now.

    It must have seemed safer to stay in the closest.

    The societal changes to reflect the legal and health changes has taken decades and, worryingly still isn’t fully ingrained.

    Every day, hundreds of mostly unreported homophobic hate crimes happen on the streets of the UK. We only hear of a few of them, which leads people to have an overriding sense that “everything is okay, nothing to see here”.

    It’s not true.

    Back to the phone room, at first when I was taking these calls from men in their 50s and above what I got was a sense of self-loathing, uncertainty but excitement. Something had been uncorked. The genie was out and it was never going to be stuffed in again.

    At first, I was surprised that the number of calls I’d answer – in amongst the “wank calls” (that’s another story), but with each shift, I began to understand that these men all hailed from a truly toxic age. They felt they had to be strong, get married, father children and provide. The only time you could cry and not be called a poofter was when England lost the World Cup.

    Our issues as a community haven’t just started. It’s been decades. Actually it’s been centuries in the making.

    …Coming out after 30 years of marriage doesn’t just affect one person. Spouses are often forgotten in the blaze of support that can surround someone’s coming out.

    I also understand that someone coming out after 30 years of marriage doesn’t just affect one person. Spouses are often forgotten in the blaze of support that can surround someone’s coming out. It must be incredibly lonely for them. Their emotional response must feel very limited, less they are seen as a homophobe.

    We need to find tools to help both people. The person coming out and the person feeling that their entire adult life has also been a lie.

    Phillip Schofield isn’t the first man to come out later in life. He won’t be the last and instead of the hype that surrounds that revelation, maybe we need to question why they felt they needed to wait so long.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Joins a gay walking group

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Joins a gay walking group

    For years, my friends have been nagging me to get some gay friends. Apparently they’re concerned that my circle consists of straight ladies, their husbands and my gaggle of old dears from the church.

    “You’ll never find a life partner surrounded by us!” Are they trying to tell me something? Lucky I’m not a sensitive soul otherwise I might think they were trying to palm me off. 

    In a way, I guess they’re right. Being stuck in my circle of ‘straights’ is probably not the most pro-active approach to meeting ‘the one’ or any gay friends come to that.

    After their persistent advice, I finally decided to take action. I Googled gay men’s groups. And up popped a gay man’s dinner club. I quickly searched for the date of the next meal, only to discover the group was now defunct.

    Probably for the best. I’m sure it would have ended up involving copious amounts of alcohol and I’d have bedded half the men before you could say ‘gay men’s dinner club.’

    Known for my perseverance, I refused to give up at the first hurdle. As I scoured the Google search engine, the Gay Outdoor Club caught my eye.

    Once I’d clarified that it wasn’t a dogging event, I became increasingly disinterested. JOKE. I became very interested. 

    I soon discovered that it was a gay walking group. How exciting. Not only would I get to meet fellow gays, I would get exercise and fresh air into the bargain. I had two options to choose from. A London group or the Surrey Hills. Coming to the conclusion that I could walk around London anytime, I decided on the Surrey Hills.

    I also noticed that they indulge in coffee and cake at the end of each walk. Cute. And the cakes are baked by some of the members. Being an amateur Mary Berry myself, this gave my spatula a twinge of excitement.

    Armed with a lemon drizzle loaf (my speciality), I nervously turned up at my first walk. This particular day was a 13-mile ramble around Hascombe. Yes, Hascombe. I still don’t bloody know where it is but it’s blooming beautiful.

    Shaking hands with all the men that were attending the walk was daunting and as the introductions finished, it was clear that I bought the median age range down by about twenty years. 

    One of the older guys came up to me and offered me a sweet from an open bag he had in his hand. Ignoring advice I’d been given as a child about accepting sweets from strangers, my hand reached into his sweetie bag. 

    “Which colour willy would you like?” He bellowed as my fingers realised they were fiddling with sugar-laden penises. 

    As we set off on our walk, the usual small talk ensued as I was asked, “Where do you live?” “What’s your job?” But it was so bloody nice. The surroundings were glorious and I was engaging in conversation with some really friendly people. And they were gay. My friends would be so proud of me. The only conversations I’ve had with gay men in recent years have been via Grindr. 

    A few miles in and this rather charming, camp man came up to me and grabbed me by the arm. Maybe this is a dogging group after all, I thought as I felt his hand on my arm.

    “I just have to tell you darling. Your eyebrows are FABULOUS! They are even better than Kim Kardashians!”

    We soon spent the rest of the afternoon laughing and talking random rubbish with each other. We had the same stupid sense of humour and outrageous outlook on life. 

    As I left the walk that day, my eyebrow admirer came running up to kiss me goodbye. “I feel like I’ve known you my whole life!” He said as we embraced. And it was true. We had clicked automatically. And do you know what was even more refreshing? It was a purely platonic encounter. I certainly felt no romantic notion towards him and I knew the feeling was mutual. 

    As the walks are only once a month, I found myself counting down the days until the next one. I’ve now been a member for five months and have loved every minute of the days out.

    It’s so amazing seeing parts of the countryside that I would never, ever venture into. And with wonderful conversation and laughs from many beautiful souls I’ve met. It’s innuendo city most of the time. Which is right up my alley. Pardon the pun.

    It’s the best decision I’ve made in years to join. My advice to you all: Even if you feel scared, just take the plunge. Join that group, book that trip. Grab life by the balls!

    During the most recent walk, I engaged in conversation with the chairman. 

    “We are always looking for new people to lead the walks”, he told me.

    “I’d bloody get us lost!” I insisted. 

    “That’s what I thought five years ago and look at me now. I lead walks and I’m the chairman!”

    “Are you trying to groom me?” I quickly retorted. Oh, how we laughed.

    Jokes aside, Tullene (my best friend) later said to me that she can see me becoming the chairman one day. Watch this space!