THEGAYUK

Category: Column

  • COLUMN | Sunset Strip

    Cabaret and burlesque is currently making a big impact on the entertainment scene. Watching some quite subversive cabaret the other night, I began to think about nudity. A beautiful woman had just stripped to her underwear and was putting the tit-tassels to good use. Usually, I watch a show and think: ‘I could do that!’ As the tap dancers reach a frenetic climax, the actor hits his dramatic high point or the trapeze artist spins on his aerial swing; I like to think that give or take a couple of lessons, I’d be great at doing this.

    Of course this isn’t true at all. I’m terribly clumsy, have no acting talent and am no good with heights. This fantasy of my own performing ability does not emerge when I watch strip tease. I know I couldn’t do this, ever. The reason being this: I have no desire to exhibit my naked body. Stripping is not for me.

    As a teenager, I loitered shyly on the gay scene and the weekly schedule in the small city where I lived included a drag act on a Wednesday night and Sunday afternoon. Bingo on a Sunday night and a stripper on a Friday. I became pretty blasé about their naked bodies gyrating in a small back street bar. Swinging cocks splashed baby oil over a bar full of men who were just tipsy enough to not be too worried about getting the stains out of their best Burtons Menswear jackets. There was always a local vicar who had barged to the front for a good eyeful, craning his neck and applauding with gusto as he leered at the sun bed orange flesh.

    The routines were often samey and on the more obvious and tacky side of ‘fantasy’. The three foot stage would be peopled by unconvincing policemen, cheap and stained ‘An Officer and a Gentleman’ air force pilots and construction workers who were so manicured that they had clearly never seen a cement mixer. The routines were mostly the same and give or take an inch here and there, the physiques varied very little with their inflated muscular, just the wrong side of deformity, and their rubber band constricted penises. There was the odd exception.
    On one notable occasion a hulking man pulled out a cucumber from his obligatory giant holdall, bent down on all fours and rammed it straight up his sphincter. This was fine and earned a healthy hum of approval. Approval turned to horror as he pulled the said fruit back out of his arse and bit the end of it off. A bar full of slightly uptight gay men gasped in unison and considered the food hygiene implications. Of course, there was always talk of the odd performer who over stepped the mark with audience participation, but I never witnessed this, which I have no regrets about.

    There’s nothing wrong with cheap back street bars, ropey strippers or the joys of the hen party crowd. In all its place and its own particular and unique merits. Striptease can also be a real art form and burlesque (and indeed Boy-lesque) combines the art of dance, glamour, drag and strip to make an often dazzling spectacle. Just don’t ask me to do it. I’ll be the one dashing to cover myself with a towel in the changing rooms.

  • COLUMN | Stay Lucky

    This month disco chart duo Daft Punk tweeted a picture their own range of condoms. The “Get Lucky” range is named after their recent hit and the packaging features the cover art from their latest album “Random Access Memories”.

    At first it was thought that this was a promotion with Durex, however they have stated that they are not involved. This maybe a cheeky bit of self-promotion or clever marketing synergy however it has got people talking about the band.

    This is not the first time musicians or bands have promoted condoms.

    In 2011, glam rock icons Kiss launched a range of their own condoms. The initial design featured Gene Simmons legendary tongue across the- ahem- length of the product. Although they passed all the relevant safety tests and requirements that condoms are required to, they were very much a novelty item based around the link between rock and roll and sex. They were licensed as an official kiss product. Wills and Kate, David Beckham and Mischa Barton have found themselves on condom wrappers although these are unofficial products.

    On the more serious side of the spectrum, Lady Gaga dressed as a giant condom on breakfast television in America promoting safe sex. Outrageous.

    Popular boy band and reality TV stars JLS released their own range of condoms last year. At the time this certainly raised some eyebrows due to the young age of their fan base. The band were partnered with Durex for this campaign and saw each member of the group have their photo and individual colour scheme on a wrapper. In comparison to the other examples, The JLS condom range was released as part of the Just Love Safe campaign through the JLS foundation, a charity the band had set up to empower and excite young people. The sales from the condoms went back into the foundation. The press release at the time stated that the UK had the highest rate of teen STI’s in Europe.

    Realistically we live in an age of celebrity, whether it’s for talent, ability or simply good positioning, ordinary people are elevated into positions of notoriety and that’s really what celebrity endorsements are all about, bringing attention to both the celebrity and the product being sold. Some will use that fame responsibly to promote important causes such as safer sex.

    Celebrities maybe used as a mouthpiece to promote different causes because on some level we may respect them, but when it really comes to safe sex does it matter?

    Realistically the only person you need to have respect for is yourself. Does it matter what a singer from a TV programme thinks about your sexual health? You are in control.

    The Gay UK’s No Excuse project is about you having that control. It means that condoms, lube and sexual health screening are all available online. If you are self-conscious about buying protection or just struggle to afford them, the option for you to get help and support is there. It’s not about following trends. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks as long as you are protecting yourself.
    www.noexcuseproject.co.uk

  • COLUMN | Insecure Me

    My insecurities are boundless. They seem to straddle all the domains: physical, social and intellectual. I’m even insecure about other people’s emotional sturdiness.

    I went to the theatre yesterday and sat next to a very well groomed actress. We got talking (how else would I know she was an actress?) and it turned out that she sees more theatre than me. Her breadth of knowledge was extensive and her ability to critique was impressive. Naturally, I felt a little inferior. She was stylish and had poise and I felt like a crumpled sweaty heap in a theatre which sorely lacked air conditioning. As I sweated and reddened she gracefully flicked a stylish fan across her unblemished face.

    Sitting at a cafe in Hyde Park later, I noticed a well groomed gay couple sitting at the table next to us. They spoke in clipped tones, dripped money from every pore and made me feel slightly shabby in my chain store clothes and with my flat Midlands vowels. As I got latte foam all over my cheeks they daintily sipped their tea.

    Walking by us was a very handsome man with his girlfriend. Naturally, I had to appraise him. It’s the duty of the gay man. He had broad muscular shoulders, a chiselled jaw and striking eyes. He also had a better head of hair than my thinning mane, model good looks and a dominant way of striding forward. Of course, I felt inferior and my insecurities rose to the fore again as I contemplated my weedy upper arms and face which could only model as a ‘before’ in an advert for cosmetic surgery.

    Thinking back later, I felt a rush of satisfaction as I wracked my brains to look for these perfect specimens’ feet of clay. The actress sat in the wrong seat in the theatre, initially and displayed a clumsy gaucheness, apologetically fumbling her way back to the correct seat. Of course she’s an expert in theatre too. It doesn’t make her next in line for a Nobel Prize. It’s just that theatre is her business. Ask her questions on my chosen career subject and she’s have surely floundered. The well groomed gay couple were perfectly poised in the cafe but as we left the park we saw them walking purposefully, several feet apart. They’d clearly had a row and their body language positively screamed pent up rage and resentment. Speaking like a BBC announcer and wearing good clothes does not equate happiness. As for the dishy bloke: he passed us again and the rear view was less than appetising. He had childbearing hips and a set of buttocks that would have fed a family of four for a week.

    I wonder why I feel the need to compete, to mentally compare myself and score points. Maybe it’s evolutionary, maybe just societal. Whatever the case, if we meet then you can sure I’ll be looking for your flaws. You know what though; I’ll like you so much for having them.

  • COLUMN | Why Grandma, What Big Hands You’ve Got

    Over the last couple of weeks we have been talking about everyone’s favourite after dinner topic, porn! Let’s be honest, we’ve all seen porn in one form or another and have all compared ourselves to the very buff, well-endowed actors (while sat drinking tea and being civilized of course…). But where does that constant need to compare ourselves to other people come from? And will we ever be happy with our own bodies enough to not care how buff the ‘other guy’ is?

    Now, I’m going to make this a little personal to me for a while so if I bore you, tough! For those that know me you know that I’m never happy with my body and that I’m rather partial to, shall we say, punch and pie… therefore keeping the body in the shape of an addonis is always going to be an uphill struggle. But who said that male bodies need to have wash board abs? And where can I find this person to rub him up against a few wash boards? (And not in a good way!).

    Don’t get me wrong, I like the look of a nice toned healthy body just as much as the next guy, but when does that creep into then comparing yourself to the men you see? We all do it, we see a slimmer, smoother, taller, bulkier guy and suddenly you instantly find yourself admiring what they have and wishing you had it yourself. When actually, you already have most of what just walked past.

    I had a friend, a real friend not “a friend”, who I went to Gran Canaria with for pride. He was tall, slim, dark haired and reasonably confident. While walking down that main drag before the pride parade started you could clearly see people checking him out and eyeing him up. But could he see it? Definitely not – instead he spent most of his time diverting attention away and complaining about how his body wasn’t as ‘picture perfect’ as some of the other bodies there. Dude, you’re getting attention from some pretty hot guys… buck up your ideas and live in the moment. Shudda, wudda, cudda doesn’t get you where you want to be or enjoying the life that is clearly knocking on your doorstep. Please note I only ever say dude when someone really has a “derrr” moment and needs to be told, one dude to another… promise!

    But we’ve all done it. Dressed differently to hide something we don’t like about our bodies, or gone on a crash diet to get just that little bit slimmer for the summer or our pride holiday.

    Is there a light at the end of the tunnel?

    If I were to change my lifestyle to get and maintain a ‘buff’ body would that mean that I would be happy with my self-image and finally be comfortable in my own skin? I don’t think so… Well, not from what I’ve seen. I can say (proudly?) that I have some fit and healthy friends, a couple of whom took the pilgrimage to change their bodies from one shape to another. Now they are in a better shape than before I thought it would stop or become settled into a ‘maintenance’ routine, but apparently not.

    They are now looking at going on to the next level and bulk out further. Dieting and protein shakes seem to have become the new thing and the same old negative self-image is still there. I remember one time for whatever reason they were unable to get to the gym for a day or 2 and all you got from them was a constant worry that they were starting to lose definition and therefore confidence.

    You could see the confidence literally disappear from his eyes as the evening went on and he talked himself more and more into a believe that no one would speak to him because his six pack had receded less than a centimeter. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, but at the same time also see some of myself in that. One thing out of place or body being bloated and you do fix on it and think that it’s something to be ashamed of.

    Lately, I will admit that being in a long term relationship meant that I did get quite close to being ‘happy’ in my own body – not completely however, but just enough to not worry about what I wore or spend ages in a gym just to burn off less fat than that in a rich tea biscuit. But that also meant that I became lazy, unhealthy and I’ll even admit it, overweight. I’m not ashamed of that, but I do now look at myself and think “bloody hell boy, you’ve let yourself go”. Instantly I go straight into a self-body hating mode and get back into the old regimes. But already I’m starting to feel healthier and a little happier in myself; so surely self-improvement can be good thing?

    Before we go down this path, mother if you’re reading this, avert your eyes or even better go and make yourself a cup of tea – go on!

    Now, you’re all thinking it – this doesn’t just apply to bodies, we also do it with cock size (and don’t say you don’t because you do, I’m yet to meet someone that hasn’t at some point in their life, even when drunk). Bigger is better apparently, again who decided this I have no idea. Personally, bigger is not better as bigger means the more you’re expected to fit up there… (Although not me, 100% top… sorry boys!).

    So why is bigger so much better? Why do we always feel like we are smaller than everyone else when in fact, actually, we are a decent size and can have ‘fun’ without the need to outsize Dumbo? A lot of people blame the porn industry, and I have to admit after just doing a basic search online, I would have to agree with that. Out of the 10 videos I found online all of them had actors that were well above the national average (and 9 of the 10 bareback I might add, but that’s a separate issue). They all looked like they could last for hours and they all gave rather loud (and kind of convincing) orgasms which could only lead the viewer to believe that big penises lead to better orgasms. It’s at this point I rely on the bottoms out there to agree with me here that that is utter rubbish.

    Personally, I take the opinion with penis size that so long as we can do something with it then who cares what the measurement is? I’m not looking to quote you for a suit, or take it on Ryanair as hand luggage so who cares what the size is? Am I alone in that thinking? And I am only saying that because I’ve not blessed in either of the extreme size categories? Is that a mindset that can ever be achieved in gay men when we are bombarded with ‘shlong’ porn and a culture of ‘bigger is better’? I think I saw a video on a ‘popular dating site’ once that even had someone shove a cone up their bum – how can anyone compete with that?

    A few years ago I was asked if I wanted to par-take in porn (I think we all have at some point) but I genuinely believed at the time that I wouldn’t be ‘fit’ enough for porn. Those guys are built, smooth and hung like a whale; 3 things of which I was not. So naturally, I turned it down, but not because of moral grounds but because I deemed myself unworthy of porn? I look back now and think, what on earth was I thinking?

    I keep bringing this back to me, in many ways this is deliberate and I make no apology for it as body image is a very personal thing. We, the outside world, can spot trends in behaviours but we all have our unique individual reasons for why we want to change our bodies or don’t feel confident in them. For some it can be a deeply personal and a painful motivator, for others a fad or peer pressure or even just a way of life and nothing any deeper than that. All I’ll say is that next time you look in the mirror and see something that you don’t like, ask yourself is it you that doesn’t like it or is it your opinion that others don’t like it therefore you don’t like it?

    If it’s the latter, just explore that thought and see where it leads… who knows you might find something out about yourself.

  • COLUMN | Turkish Delight

    I made an embarrassing revelation a few weeks ago about my shameless quest to save cash and how I had a £5 haircut that was like total carnage. Today I upgraded and went for a £10 haircut. I’ve not only upped but have doubled my ante.

    I was feeling slightly sticky after a brisk stroll from work. The weather was hot and stark and I couldn’t face the bus with its heaters constantly blasting out in spite of the 30-degree heat. Walking felt like the better option. Every bus journey of late has left me on the brink of throwing up in the aisle. I stopped off by the station near where we live at a light and airy barbers which looked clean and vaguely stylish. Being greeted by a hot six-foot bloke in his early 30s with olive skin and good arms made me forget the sweat pooling in my crevices.

    He was a talkative barber. I never know which is worse: the surly ones who ignore you or the prattling ones you have to make an effort with. This one was entertaining and to be honest, he had such a handsome face that I really couldn’t have cared if he read out the cricket scores. I’m a fool for a swarthy man brandishing tools (or scissors).

    He began the snipping and was actually very nifty. My eyes occasionally noted his handiwork although I must admit that he did appear to have what looked like a small mammal nestling in the front of his trousers that drew my eye. I started to feel very warm indeed under the cape type thing.

    “I am from Turkey! I am living here one year and I practice my English. Do you mind me practice talk?”

    “I’d love it!’ I exclaimed with a smile, like he’d just offered me a winning lottery ticket.

    We began to make small talk and I tried hard not to look at the ageing pink thing in the mirror that was being groomed by this Adonis.

    “Is very hot in Turkey. Is hot here too, no? For Irish man like you is bad when you are very pink.”

    I wasn’t offended. Irish is fine with me. They have great writers there and the drinking culture is great.

    “Is also very bad in the day. Turkish people sleep from perhaps 12 till 5. Is 42 degrees there today. For a man like you is very hard to go outside when he has a patch of…what is the saying!…on his head. What is it I say?’

    “Bald patch?” I replied, instantly feeling just a little more humiliated.

    He nodded vigorously: “Yes! Big bald patch!’

    I smiled coquettishly in spite of dying a little inside.

    We carried on like this for a while: me getting pinker, him getting more unfeasibly handsome in spite of his casual lack of tact in front of this aging red faced sweat machine: “You have very hairy neck! Do any barber tell you that you have very hairy neck?”

    I decided there and then. I’d rather he’d spoken to me in Turkish. I wouldn’t have understood a word, but in my mind he’d have been telling me how beautiful I am and how he wished the men of Turkey were so fair and ravishing.

    As it was: it cost me ten quid, I got to glance sideways at a hot man with what looked a massive schlong in his slacks and my hair looks great. Everyone is a winner but my poor pride. I’ll be back for more in a month.

  • COLUMN | Starey Mary

    My partner and I made a rare sortie into a central London gay bar the other evening, on our way to see a play. He was craving a cool pint of beer and the nearest decent bar just happened to be one where the more stylish boys hang out.

    I’m pretty accustomed to gay bars and am a jaded pub goer, having launched myself on the gay scene at a slightly scandalous 16 years old but my partner has never really partaken in the scene much at all, being a much later starter and having lived in more rural areas. It sometimes takes an outsider to spot something and pinpoint a factor that you take for granted.

    My partner noticed the constant staring. Being slightly vain, he loved it. Its normal practice in a gay bar to be appraised and I don’t even notice this anymore. The quick look up and down, the sideways glance and the full on full body scan are all perils that you face when entering a bar. It’s habitual, standard practice and is done without thinking and with no terrible breach of etiquette. In fact, it is the etiquette. I wouldn’t even think it rude were someone to look down pointedly at my crotch to see what I was packing or to perform a lengthy examination of my buttocks. It’s just the way of the gay. It often ends in dismissal (I’m with a partner, I’m over 40 and therefore unavailable/decrepit and not necessarily worth the effort) but can end in a brief eye contact, a mutual appraisal or a mutual disdain.

    We talked about it and I explained the code of practice in a gay bar to my partner. I explained that it’s often meaningless; that gay men appraise men, just as straight men appraise women and it’s as much a habit as biting your nails or chewing gum.

    I have a thousand sneaky ways of looking attractive men up and down in the street. Lechery has to be a skilful art at times. There’s the brief sideways glance at a hot businessman on the tube, over the top of a paperback novel. The window reflection study of a scantily clad hottie in shorts on the top deck of a bus is a classic manoeuvre. The distracted ‘just casually looking around but my eyes have accidentally taken in the lycra cyclist with the muscles and I’ve noted that he appears to have a massive penis’ is a very retro one which is easy to perfect, provided you can feign the right level of nonchalance.

    Let the Starey Marys stare in the bars. It’s not at all intimidating unless you let it be so and is actually, quite flattering should their facial expression register a glimmer of approval or lust. If they dismiss or grimace, then just let it amuse you.

    They clearly have no class or taste or you’re just in the wrong bar.

  • COLUMN | Happy Birthday To You

    So, TheGayUK has hit a memorable birthday and what a fantastic year it has been. I’ve interviewed choreographers, writers, poets, cabaret artists, actors, painters and singers, reviewed theatre, film, dance and even a book where a poodle showed me the sights of London.

    The site is also going from strength to strength. I just hope that the site has a better track record with celebrating birthdays than I have.

    1976: I’m five years old and have the one and only birthday party of my childhood. My mum organises a treasure hunt and hides sweets all round the house. For the next year we find melted Blackjacks in extraordinary places. The food is fancy for the 70s (i.e. the tomatoes are cut into little crown shapes). The party goes seriously wrong when over-excited, I lean in too close to ‘Pop-up Pirate’ and the little plastic pirate hits my forehead with velocity. Being a trainee diva, I order the party terminated and ask everyone to leave, before flouncing upstairs to my room in a huff born of indignity.

    1989: My 18th was less than monumental. I remember having bad 80s hair and trawling round bars with my partner, drinking gin. That’s where the memory ends. There was a lot of gin. I don’t like being 18 much. I feel gauche and am horribly shy and am hopeful that this will improve with age. It does, mostly.

    1992: I’m 21 and having another tantrum. I’m stuck in an overheated restaurant, which has an American diner theme, drinking cocktails and eating over cooked greasy food with a group of friends and my partner. I feel terribly old and wise (I’m actually neither) and also very unhappy with the life I have and I’m taking it out on everyone around me. The mature option would have been to change the bad things and move forward (e.g. ditch the abusive partner) but I’m not able to visualise that one. My Brandy Alexander (see how sophisticated the 90s were!) isn’t the right drink and I get some hideous banana thing. I do the mature thing and deflect my unhappiness on to the waiter and embarrass everyone around me with a drunken rant.

    2001: I hit 30 and am officially dead in gay terms. I actually don’t mind though. I’ve finally got a partner who is treating me well and we hit London for the occasion. A trip to the theatre, a whiz round the London Eye and a night clubbing in Heaven with a lot of drinks bought for me are all followed by my birthday itself where I feel each and every day of my 30 years as I spend a hung over day clinging to the rim of the marble toilet in the plush hotel, crying in pain and praying for oblivion. I get bought a T-shirt which says: ‘Big Dicks and Vodka’. Although these are valid hobbies, I never wear it.

    2011: After spending the last few years having nocturnal sweats thinking about being 40, I actually love it. I have a new partner, who makes me happier than I’ve ever been, I have a great circle of friends who I love and am more comfortable with myself than I’ve ever been. I hire a local arts cinema and screen a film for my friends and the day is fantastic. I no longer drink vodka, although I still quite admire the big dicks, but from afar now. What’s not to love about being 40? Bring on more birthdays.

    Have a happy birthday GayUK x

  • EDITOR’S LETTER | Look who’s one!

    I can barely believe it’s been a year since Graham and I officially started THEGAYUK. What started, as a reviewing site for music and film has turned into something we’re both so incredibly proud of and something we’re completely addicted to.

    I don’t think there’s been a day when something hasn’t been posted for our wonderful readers, even if we’re driving up and down the country, dipping into Internet cafes and buying a dongle – when Wi-Fi wasn’t available.

    We’ve managed to speak to some incredible people and celebrities over the year:

    Julian Clary, Gareth Thomas, Rylan Clark, Ben Cohen, Peter Tatchell, Doctor Christian Jessen, Scott Mills, Margaret Cho, Elvira, Steps, Heather Small and Pam Ann are just some of the wonderful people we’ve managed to interview in the last 12 months. Our readership has grown from 2,000 in the first few months to over 130,000 every month.

    We’ve seen some phenomenal stories develop from MPs voting on gay marriage to Russia’s frightening anti-gay agenda to the hideous way in which the traditional press treated the late Lucy Meadows.

    We have over 50 contributors who bring you the best in opinion, reviews, interviews and news. We’re so proud of everyone who has made TheGayUK possible – and we’re still open for anyone to write or contribute to us.

    In the year we’ve been official, TheGayUK created a free legal clinic and online sexual health clinic (with our special partners 56 Dean Street) and released our first App, which will help you find any gay business in the UK as well as free access to all our articles. We’re still thinking of ways we can help, like the introduction of our No Excuse Project – which will see us deliver free condoms to your door – anywhere in the UK.

    Recently Graham and I have been to a number of Prides up and down the country and have been meeting with some wonderful people. It’s been amazing to speak with the UK’s gay community from Scotland to Brighton. We’re proud and what’s more when we speak to our readers, they’re proud too.

    For as long as we have each other we’ll continue to be THEGAYUK.

    Ok gush over, let get back to being gay.

    Jake and Graham

    Co-founders

     

    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 | What a drag

    I can remember being fascinated by Danny LaRue. I was a child of six and sat transfixed in front of the TV at this strange looking lady who was actually a man.

    I accepted it as a commonplace, ordinary thing and a totally acceptable lifestyle choice. It was on the TV after all. My main ambition was to grow up to be Wonder Woman but growing up to be a drag queen seemed a close second. Of course, I now realise that I could have combined the two options, although my knees are a bit knobbly for satin tights.

    I experimented with my mother’s make-up as a teenager and quite liked how strangely androgynous I looked in a full face of badly applied slap. I didn’t graduate any further and resisted trying on her clothes. This was for no other reason apart from the fact that she had terrible taste in frocks. It was the 80s; everyone had terrible taste in everything. As I grew older I became seduced by the Goth culture and by androgynous gender defying singers. It was the perfect excuse for black nail polish and the odd touch of ghostly pale make-up to make me look like a resurrected corpse. I never considered dragging up though. My drag queen ambitions of early childhood went out of the window and with the advent of puberty and the masses of body hair that accompanied this, i just couldn’t have afforded the razors anyway.

    As I got older and ventured onto the gay scene, I grew to love a bit of classy drag. I adored David Dale, Lily Savage and Lizzy Drip with their witty repartee and clever routines. I even liked the tacky acts with their cheap innuendo and their caterwauling along to ‘It Should Have Been Me’ whilst wearing an ill fitting yellowing wedding dress and swinging a dildo. I’d watch the drag queens and think: ‘I could do that!’ This ill placed confidence in my abilities surfaces whenever I watch any kind of show, whether its a trapeze artist, frenetic tap dancer, ballet or a heartfelt Shakespearean performance; I always think that given a couple of hours tuition I could master that too. I suppose that’s the mark of a skilled performer; making it look easy.

    I didn’t drag up until I was in my late 30s that is very late for a gay, I suspect. Straight men drag up even earlier. They grab every chance they can to pull on a bra and wriggle into a frock, whether it’s pub-crawls, stag nights or just the night the wife is out. My first outing in drag was not at all glamorous. I decided to go as Barbara Woodhouse. For those too young to recall, she was a famous dog breeder who appeared on TV being brusque in tweeds and yanking on poor little pooches leads. I thought it would be absolutely hilarious to tweed up and have a toy dog on elastic that I could vigorously yank around whilst shouting ‘Walkies!’

    Finding the clothes was a nightmare. I trawled the charity shops and eventually found a tweed two-piece in one shop. I asked to try it on, explaining it was for fancy dress. The woman shouted down the shop: “Enid! Can you get the changing room key? This man wants to try a skirt on. He’s going to dress as a transvestite.’

    It didn’t fit. All I could find in my size was an array of foul frumpy dresses. I thought laterally. Which celebrity looked frumpy? I went as Susan Boyle. There was no depilation involved. One cheap wig, sturdy court shoes and a nylon dress plus a pair of stick on eyebrows and a handlebar moustache and I was SuBo.

    My next attempt was a little bit more glamorous. I went to an 80s themed party. As you may have guessed, I loathe the 80s and call it the decade that taste forgot. I really did not want to wear the hideous fashions that make me shudder and recall my unhappy childhood. Again I thought laterally. I wanted a cheap outfit and wanted to go as someone or something I liked. I fired up YouTube and watched Debbie Harry singing along to Atomic in a bin bag. My outfit was born.

    The bin bag proved a bit sweaty and the huge blonde wig was heavy. Worst of all was the heels. I almost broke my neck in the heels. I think I may stick to my brogues for now and leave the dragging up to those who have the gene of utter fabulousness. I seem to only have half of that gene.

  • COLUMN | Something for the weekend sir?

    I’m trying to be leaner. I don’t mean slimmer, more taut or fitter. I’m quite happy as I am if it means I can carry on sitting down a lot. I mean that I’m meaner.

    CREDIT: ©-everett225-Depositphotos
    CREDIT: ©-everett225-Depositphotos

    I’ve recently moved house and my expenses have rocketed out of all control. The cost of moving hasn’t just been on my mental health but has hit my pocket quite hard too. My savings have been battered out of existence.

    In a spirit of trying to rationalise my finances, I’ve been loitering round the reduced bread section in the supermarket in the early evening, buying unbranded products and taking my own lunch to work. I’m not exactly poverty stricken but my thoughts are that the less I spend on food then the more I can spend on clothes, DVDs and books. I can eat like a pauper and attend the theatre and the ballet like an aristocrat.

    Last week I went a step too far though. I decided to go for a cheap haircut. I’d spotted an unusual looking establishment on the bus to work which advertised ‘Any haircut: £5!”. I decided that as I was passing I’d give it a go. My hair style isn’t complex, just short with a side parting and a bit of grading. What could go wrong? Why do I need to spend £20 or £30?

    I walked in, sat down on the grimy plastic sofa and instantly regretted my rash decision. Firstly, it was warm and I was liable to stick to the cheap sofa. Secondly: the pictures on the walls threw me into a state of panic. Displayed on the walls was a picture of Gareth Gates circa ‘Pop Idol’ with his ridiculous spikes, a fair few thugs sporting mullets and some interesting shaved patterns on the heads of what looked the inmates of a young offenders institute. I was considering leaving when a squat Turkish man frogmarched me into a chair.

    “Wha you wan?’

    “Well, I like the sideburns trimmed to a number two with clippers and up the sides I like a….”

    Before I finished with my admittedly slightly pedantic requests he grabbed a set of clippers and ran them up the side of my head, ensuring there was no going back. I decided to go with it. I felt I’d reached a point where I had no other option. I was certain I was going to leave there looking like some odd 90s throwback or someone with a rare medical condition.

    He pushed my head forward and down, in a way reminiscent of a gay porno. He planted his palm on my face and pushed me sideways one way, then the other way. I felt like I was in a wrestling match. He reached for a huge razor and flicked off a used blade into a dirt speckled glass and deftly slotted in a blade and started shaving round my neck and sideburns at an alarming speed. I wondered just how new the new blade was and considered the fact that Hepatitis B is prevalent in the Borough where I live. I nervously waited for the nick, reassuring myself that like any sensible gay man, I’m vaccinated against Hepatitis B. This reassured me till I remembered about Hepatitis C which there’s no vaccine for.

    There were no cuts, luckily, but there was a liberal amount of water sprayed onto my head and face. Within less than 10 minutes he’d done and grabbed the gown off me, holding out his hand for the fiver. Where was the drying of my soaking hair, the showing me the back for approval (I hate that bit actually, I’m 42. No 42 year old wants to see the thinning bit at the back of his head) or the basic pleasantries?

    I staggered out of the shop, water dripping down my face, razor burn smarting on my neck and a rising sense of horror at what my hair would look like once I got home. You may or may not be surprised to learn that actually my hair looks great. It’s the best cut I’ve had in ages. Who needs niceties? Its a fiver. I think I’ll remain prudent for a while longer. I’ll be back there in a month. Stale bread anyone?

  • COLUMN | Natural Selection

    I was standing outside yesterday (having a sneaky cigarette, naturally) when a flock of parakeets flew past me. I thought I was hallucinating for a moment. I’m not in the Tropics but in South East London. Then I remembered, there are colonies of parakeets all over London.

    The urban myths are that they originate from a pair released by Jimmi Hendrix or that they escaped from Pinewood Studios during the filming of The African Queen. I prefer the latter explanation and like to think that these parakeets may be descended from a celebrity bird who perhaps had his stomach tickled by the steely Katherine Hepburn.

    This is the kind of nature I like. Nature that’s close to a 24 hour shop, is in a grimy urban environment and in a place where there’s full reception on my mobile. It’s much safer that way.

    Every morning a heron flies past my flat at about 7am. He’s huge, like a creature from pre-historic times. He glides over the courtyard at the back of my flat and I assume he’s on his way to work. I think he may be a commuter. He works long hours though. I’ve seen him returning at 7pm. He needs to get on to the ornithological union about his terms and conditions.

    Two minutes walk from my flat is a little park with a lake. The lake is a water bird reserve and contains a variety of newborns at the moment. There are goslings with dense yellow fluff, clumsy little moor hens and a group of miniscule ducklings. These bring out the inner child in me and I can stand and watch them for ages. There’s a sign by the lake advising against over feeding the birds and this sign is a picture of a huge rat. This brings out the inner panicked housewife in me. I want to find the nearest chair, jump on and tie the bottoms of my trousers up.

    An article in last week’s Time Out London did the same to me too. I never respond well to pictures of people holding up over sized dead rodents. I would have mounted the seat for ankle protection and screamed (a perfectly normal response to even the mention of a rat) but I thought that the other people on the train to Charing Cross might think I was odd.

    At the weekend I saw a crow attacking a pigeon, pulling chunks of flesh out of its wing. It was a malevolent beast, mean and brooding yet beautiful with its shiny black plumage; like a pantomime villain. This reminds me of my love/hate relationship with the natural world and why I don’t watch wildlife documentaries. I always end up horrified by the expression on the little animal’s faces as they get eaten alive by lions and I end up perturbed. Why can’t they all be vegetarians? I suppose you just can’t get good quality Quorn antelopes in the Serengeti.

    Yesterday I saw a dead fox. He was laid out on the window ledge of a big Edwardian house. He was magnificent and would have looked like he was just sleeping were it not for the little trickle of blood pooled around his mouth and the bone jutting out of his back leg. I squirmed a little at the sight but not at the corpse. I was more perplexed and disturbed as to why someone would have placed him on the window ledge. Surely a window ledge isn’t the ideal place to lay out a corpse? I’d hate to be that resident when they opened to the curtains. I’m not good with road kill.

    The local high street on the way to work is a minefield too. As a child I hated visits to the local market in the Midlands town where we lived. There were always rows of dead rabbits hanging up and my father would show his usual sensitivity by singing ‘Bright Eyes’: the theme from Watership Down to me. The local high street has stalls with ‘boiling chickens’ hanging by their feet. These are plucked chickens with their heads still on but with jagged knife wounds through their scrawny throats. I’m not tempted by them.

    As a child our house was a place that lacked safety from dead animals too. My father knew a man who knew a man who would provide him with game. I would skip into the pantry only to be confronted by a pheasant or a wood pigeon or a rabbit hanging by its feet. One time, memorably, I screamed to see a massive white goose hanging by its webbed feet. I suppose I should count myself lucky to have never walked in to find a deer hanging by its hooves.

    I know its all part of the natural plan. The weak and soft get killed by the predators or the hazards. I don’t have to try to like it though, do I? I think for now I’ll stick to admiring nature in parks and stick to my humus and lentils. It’s safer that way.