THEGAYUK

Category: Column

  • MOTORING | Before the Rise Of Tamiya

    MOTORING | Before the Rise Of Tamiya

    My first 3

    With Christmas just gone I look back to the winter of 1981 where my driving career started.

    I’ve been rather fortunate with a recent eBay purchase that I hadn’t actually gone looking for and to be honest, I’m not sure what made me look for it or how I found it. The reason for this utter astonishment from me when sober was because the item in question doesn’t really have a memorable name. What I have managed to do is find my first 3 radio controlled cars. 

    The toy pages of the Gratham autumn/winter catalogue became a mass of dog eared pages. I had eyed up the Corgi racing Golf. Being all of 6, I did still believe in Santa. I was expecting a racing Golf. Alas the Golf never happened. So let me take you for a drive on my first 3.

    LaTrax Alpha RCX

    I’ve been searching for this ad-hoc for several years but I’ve never really been able to find it because its random name was totally lost on me. How the hell could I remember that mix of exotic sounding words?

    For a start there is the design. I could have sworn it was a 1967 Mustang fastback. It does look a bit like that at the rear but now I’m looking and I note it’s more Datsun 240Z at the front. It really was a nothing car. A random selection of designs thrown together. There were 4 Mustangs 2’s on the box. I remember that. 

    There were other things I remembered too about this. Despite not quite remembering the controller having a steering wheel, I do remember the push buttons for the forward and backward motions. 

    Looking at the RCX today, it really was a thing of advanced engineering. It had proportional steering and a floating rear axle. It drove quite quickly through the one rear wheel. I remember hearing it crash against the wall the night before Christmas and shouting down to my parents only to be told it wasn’t what I had screamed.

    Sadly the RCX was to be short lived. Like several minutes. It broke. What was to come afterwards was MUCH better.

    Likto Truck   

    This was the absolute nuts of a toy to me. It was huge and had blazing yellow lights. The trailer could either be a flat bed with detachable ramp or articulate box. This was 18 wheels of goodness although 16 of those were pretend double wheels but let’s us not split hairs of tyres here. It wasn’t just a truck and trailer though. Based on a Kenworth, this was your all out American big rig. I was part of the convoy. I was right there with Rubber Duck. That was until the gun firing. I wasn’t going to have my big rig damaged. 

    The Likto truck had the added bonus of being able to dismount the trailer at the touch of a button. It was almost fully interactive. The game was then to reverse up to and hitch the trailer to the truck. You could say it taught eye-hand co-ordination. Not that you’d think it did if you ever see me playing computer games. I’m quite hopeless.

    The technology didn’t just stop there. For a toy, it had a complex drive and clutch system with 3 gear ratio set ups. Slow or fast in all directions but it also gave the option of fast forward and slow reverse at the flick of a lever underneath. 

    Alas all good things must come to an end. I remember being almost inconsolable when it stopped working. I loved that truck.

    Corgi Mini Metro

    Now here was peak Corgi toys. Back in 1983 Corgi had you covered for all things a young budding motorist required. TV detective cars, big scale, small scale and electric cars that you didn’t even need to push around the living room. That last statement can’t actually be applied to Corgi’s RC toys. They were a bit rubbish.

    The Metro lived up to the hype of its British Leyland roots. It wasn’t that great and it was unreliable. Discovering the magic powers of a screw driver, I took mine apart. It was like looking into the void of a glossy wrapped box with a sparkling bow in the corner next to your name. It was  empty apart from the cheapest circuit board you have ever seen.

    It took all these batteries to give it 6 volts of magic. It could have done with around half of that. So simple and not very effective, it had cheap magnetic controlled steering. That 6 volt of power did not translate to scintillating speed to chip the lead paint from the newly painted skirting boards around the house. It wasn’t what you could call a carpet racer despite its fetching Datapost livery. 

    What I do remember was the hate I had for my sister when it came choosing the 70 or 77 numbers. She suggested 70 because I was 7. Shut up Jackie. She know nothing about race cars. We all knew the higher the number, the faster it goes right?

    It died a painful death in my hands and I can’t say what I did to it was deliberate. It just died. Its Super Cover warranty had expired along with the car. 

    Rise of the Big Boys

    It wasn’t until Christmas 1985 when I kick started my long affair with the real boys toys. Those from Tamiya with their Wild One. And as for the Golf, I found one and to be honest I wasn’t missing out. It was the same as the Metro, just as naff but clothed in a Volkswagen body. Thankfully nothing was as unreliable as a Corgi VW Golf except for a Metro.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | That date when I was arrested for being drunk and disorderly

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | That date when I was arrested for being drunk and disorderly

    You would have thought that I’d learnt my lesson about venturing outside of London for dates. But no, ever the glutton for punishment, when my latest beau, Kevin suggested a day trip to Brighton, I jumped at the chance.

    Kevin was/is the son of my then hairdresser. I say was as he’s no longer in my life and his mum no longer puts a pair of scissors anywhere near my bonce.

    This one day, she was chopping away at my rather thinning hair and she started talking about Kevin. Although I knew she had a gay son, I’d never met him.

    “Oh Mark. My Kevin’s just split up with his fella. He could do with cheering up.”

    Alarm bells should have immediately started ringing in my ears. REBOUND. But this is me after all and I’m never one for saying no. Infact, NO has always been a word that struggles to leave my lips. Perhaps that’s why certain people have called me a slut over the years.

    No sooner had the words, “Okay, I’d love to meet him” left my gob, this tall, jaw droppingly handsome man appeared from behind the door.

    She was either a magician or this had been a planned set up. Seeing his gorgeous flop of brown hair and deep set green eyes quickly made me erase all thoughts of my hairdressers’ wizardry. Either that, or she’d wiped out my memory with another spell of black magic.

    We caught each other’s eyes and I saw a glint in both his and mine. I smiled and I witnessed him become rather dazzled at the sight of my pearly whites. I’d been to the hygienist that particular day for a clean and polish.

    “Do you fancy a day trip to Brighton?” He forwardly asked me.

    “Damn right!” I blurted out quicker than you could say pier.

    Before I knew it, we were at Euston waiting for the twelve minutes past ten fast train. We chatted with ease and laughed a lot. We had the same stupid sense of humour.

    Gadini / Pixabay

    I soon found a glass of Sauvignon Blanc from the train’s buffet table was going down a treat. Luckily, he shared my love of all things Savvy B. Except he appeared to love it much more than me. He was already on his second glass before I was even half way through my first.

    But, as you know, the good Catholic boy that I am, I shalt not judge.

    No sooner were we off the train, Kevin had his lips firmly plastered around another glass of savvy b inside The Queen’s Arms. My eyes widened as I saw him pour the wine down his gullet quicker than Jaws approaching a surf board.

    As my friends quite often say, “if Mark is shocked by someone’s behaviour, then that’s saying something”. It MUST be shocking. Now, until I spent some time with Kevin, I thought that I could put the Savvy B away. But he made me look like a tee-total monk.

    After god knows how many glasses in The Queen’s Arms, he suggested we take a walk along the pier. Well, I say walk. By this point, it was more of a stumble.

    Stumbling along the pier, we ventured into the arcade. As we came out the other side, Kevin grabbed my hand with excitement. How romantic, I thought, the way he’s clutching at my hand with such enthusiasm. It soon became clear that the over zealous way he held my hand had more to do with the pub on the pier he had spotted and was now dragging me into.

    Five more glasses of vino for Kevin and just two more for me, I was struggling to keep up. I suggested we get some sea air. I thought it might help sober us up, if nothing else.

    wilhei / Pixabay

    As we ventured out onto Brighton sea front, I turned to look at the pier all lit up. What a beautiful sight. Suddenly confused, I turned to look at Kevin who seemed to be sporting two heads.

    “I didn’t know there were two piers!” God knows how I was managing to string a sentence together.

    “There is only one pier”, Kevin told me, “the other one burnt down in the eighties.”

    With hindsight, I realise the copious amounts of Sauvignon Blanc had probably started to affect my vision.

    “Revenge should be open by now!” Kevin grabbed my hand rather enthusiastically. The fact that I struggled to put one foot in front of the other should have been a massive hint that I was ready to get the train back to London.

    Just as we went to cross the road, a policeman tapped me on the shoulder. My head flopping from side to side, I managed to turn to face him without falling flat on my boatrace.

    “Don’t you think it’s time you called it a night.” P.C Plod advised, obviously observing my inebriated state.

    Wanting to nod my head, I didn’t get a chance to respond as Kevin took the lead.

    “The night is only just beginning!”

    “It looks like it began a long while ago!”

    I do like a policeman with a sense of humour.

    Ignoring the officer of the law, Kevin took my hand once more and started to pull me away from P.C Plod. Struggling to stay in an upright position, I found myself clinging onto the policeman’s shirt.

    And before you could say, old bill, I had fallen to the pavement, pulling P.C Plod on top of me. And then, just to put the icing on the cake, the Savvy B (and empty stomach) finally caught up with Kevin. I saw projectile vomit launch towards us.

    “I’m arresting you both for being drunk and disorderly in a public place.”

    Those were the last words I heard before my eyes opened again in the cold light of day. Sunshine beaming through police cell bars.

    I got the train home to London all on my own.

    Receiving a caution on a date was a sure fire way to ensure that a second date with Kevin was definitely not on the cards.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | My ‘ALMOST’ happy ending…

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | My ‘ALMOST’ happy ending…

    After a long-term, online, long-distance relationship with a guy that turned out to be transgender, THE UNDATEABLE GAY goes to meet the man of his dreams…

    using your mobile phone too much
    CREDIT: bigstock-kalim

    I’ve deleted all my dating apps. There’s not one to be found on my iPhone. I was fed up with all the curious straight men chatting to me on Plenty of Fish. And annoyed at everybody on Grindr being shallow and only wanting one thing. And don’t even get me started on Tinder. I may only be in my 30s but I’m rather Granny like when it comes to technology.

    After an unfortunate incident involving a 70-year-old lady and swiping right, and then being slightly stalked and receiving numerous invites for coffee and cake, I decided that Tinder was no good for me either.

    I’ve taken to more intellectual apps these days. My favourite is Words with Friends. For those of you not in the know, this is Scrabble. But on your phone. And you can play with anyone, anywhere in the world.

    One day, I started playing with this very handsome man called Joshua. Yes, you get to see a photo of who you’re playing with. I kept perving on his picture whilst waiting for him to play his move, praying he would start a conversation.

    And then the Lord answered my prayers and a chat popped up. Although it was a little ambiguous. Remember, this is not a gay app, so there’s no way of knowing whether the person you’re playing with fancies you. Or even if they’re a raving homo.

    After putting my journalistic training into practice, it was soon confirmed that Joshua was flirting with me and did indeed fancy me.

    He was only 25. Ten years younger than me but I decided that I could be a cougar if I wanted. And he lived in Southampton. I was a bit disappointed that he wasn’t in London but hey-ho, it’s only an hour’s drive or a train ride! And besides, I’ve become so institutionalized with being single, I thought it’d be perfect to have a man who didn’t live in my pocket.

    We spent months talking on the phone, exchanging WhatsApp messages and sending each other photos. I don’t think I’ve ever fancied a man as much as I had Joshua.

    He was just my type; Tattoos, quite butch and BLOODY handsome.

    We had so much in common. We drank like fishes. We had potty mouths and both adored the C U Next Tuesday word. And we both had quite common, rough around the edges accents. Surely it was a match made in heaven.

    We even discussed growing older together. And I’d never met another man who shared the same views as me about how we should behave in a care home as an old couple together. We both agreed that it would be wheelchair races through the corridors. And slipping under the table for a sly blowjob during bingo.

    A few months of a long-distance telephone relationship, I decided it was finally time to bite the bullet. Being the older gentleman, I took the lead and arranged to get the train from London to Southampton. I was finally going to meet the man of my dreams, my perfect match.

    Two days before the big first date, he sent me a message declaring, “We’re perfect for each other, I swear.” I swooned at the words and I was of the same opinion. We were so similar, the way we spoke, the thoughts we had. It was scary.

    The night before I was due to catch my train to Southampton, we had a very interesting text conversation.

    JOSHUA: Probably something I should tell you before you come in case it puts you off.

    ME: What??

    JOSHUA: I’m transgender. I was born a female. I know you’ll probably freak and it’s fine.

    MARK: I don’t give a shit. I know you as Joshua and I fancy you.

    The morning of the date arrived and the sun was shining so brightly. The sun shines on the righteous, my dear Nan always said.

    I arrived at Southampton Docks in plenty of time for our meeting. We’d agreed on 1 pm. It got to ten past and no sign of him. I tried to call. No answer. It got to twenty past. I sent two messages. No reply.

    As the clock hit 2 pm, I thought, What a C U Next Tuesday. I’ve come all the way from London and you don’t even have the common human decency to show up or even respond to my attempts at contact.

    Being ever the positive boy that I am, I decided that I would not waste my day. The sun was beating down and it was the most beautiful day so I spent my unexpected free time wondering around Southampton. I had a few glasses of wine, ate a spot of lunch and watched the world go by.

    A few glasses of savvy b later, I decided it was time to get the train back to London. But not before I sent one final message to Joshua. I simply had to have the final word:

    “I had a lovely day in the sun at Southampton Docks. I thought it best not to waste the train tickets so I spent the day in Southampton anyway. I wouldn’t worry what people think of you because you’re transgender. I’d be more concerned with what people think of you because you’re a bit of a cunt.”

  • DRAMA TRIANGLE: Hero, Villain or maybe you’re neither?

    DRAMA TRIANGLE: Hero, Villain or maybe you’re neither?

    One thing you may all of noticed in your lives is that when someone wrongs you (in whatever way) they aren’t shunned by their friends or family, they often carry on with their lives and, depending on the scenario, will continue to have people give testimony to what a ‘good person’ they are.

    This, often but not always, seems to only add fuel to the fire and riles us up further as to how there is no justice in the world. I mean, how can this be so?

    How can someone that has done something so despicable in your eyes that the world can see them still as the ‘good guy’?

    Well, in short, that’s because the world varies rarely deals in absolutes, contrary to what many people today would have you believe. The world is various shades of grey and there isn’t a ‘universally agreed’ rule book on behaviour everyday behaviour. What you see as something despicable others may well not see as that bad. They may even see you as the villain and this other person the ‘hero’.

    Anxiety, depression and general mental health struggles are a big problem in our modern-day society, therefore while this article can’t cure those things, I wanted to share with you a couple of survival tips I have learnt over the years through my experiences and my struggles with Depression.

    Drama Triangle:

    One of the most powerful things I learned was about the drama triangle. It is a model that most soaps and dramas are based on and is pretty much everywhere in social life – especially amongst the gay community!

    The way it works is that in any given scenario there are always at least 3 ‘roles’. Person 1, from their point of view, may be claiming to be the ‘victim’. “This person is giving me a hard time at work” or something like that. Something is happening to them or has happened to them that they feel is ‘wrong’. To validate that belief, they will seek a witness (person 3). Someone who will be told their tale of woe and will be expected to give them sympathy and by doing so, validate their position as the victim and this other person (person 2) as the perpetrator.

    At the very same time, the person being accused of being the perpetrator or ‘attacker’ of the victim (person 2) may also be feeling attacked by the person claiming to be victim, which may be why they have been defensive or stand-offish to the person 1. In their mind, the roles are very different from how person 1 sees it. To them, they are the victim, person 1 is perpetrator and person 3 is the witness given sympathy and validation (someone who could very well be the same exact person that was the witness to person 1).

    This triangle is always chopping and changing as events and the ‘drama’ unfolds. And unfortunately, once you are in it, it is very difficult to get out of it.

    This is why I have found, albeit extremely painful at times, it is best to always be on the lookout for this triangle in effect and to try and put yourself into the ‘adult’ or ‘observer’ category outside of the triangle and able to see each angle and element to draw your own conclusions (or not). It means you are also able to see that what someone may need is not a sympathy validation of being the victim, but instead an opportunity to break the cycle and take control of their own self-awareness and mental state.

    Communication:

    One of the biggest things I have found in all aspects of life is that communication is paramount and can be a tricky thing to master. I’ve witnessed relationships (any relationships not just romantic ones) completely fall apart because of too little communication, too much communication or over-engineered communication.

    Too little communication is one of the biggest causes of issues. Things like “I assumed they wouldn’t mind”, or “I thought they might react badly, so I kept quiet” are just 2 views that you hear every time something goes wrong.

    I’ve seen romantic relationships where they have mutually ‘agreed’ to be open, but that mutual agreement might exist in one person’s head, but not the other. One has one view of what that means and another view. Both come with their own sets of rules and are often worlds apart from each other. Whereas all it takes is a little courage to speak your mind on what the rules could be and mutually agree them have actually talked about them. We make such large decisions on the basis on assumption, are we really surprised when it then comes tumbling down? Assuming really does make an ‘Ass’ out of ‘U’ and ‘Me’.

    On the flip side, of course, too much communication can be just as harmful. One example would be that we all look at the world around us and make unconscious judgments on what we see. We filter as to what is relevant to us at that moment and what isn’t. And seeing a beautiful face while walking and proceeding to spend 5 minutes talking about how that face made you feel may not be what your romantic partner wants to hear. You’ve assumed they would want to hear about it because you would want to and that could be how you communicate or did communicate with friends and previous lovers.

    Cracking the communication nut is difficult but you can’t crack communication if you communicate nothing. So, talk to your loved one, friend, family member etc and see where it takes you. Even talk to someone you consider an enemy; you might find you learn something, and communication is restored (I refer you back to the drama triangle).

    Self-awareness:

    Self-awareness is a great and useful thing, but it is also extremely dangerous and is not to be confused with things like body dysmorphia or a form of anxiety that makes you overly aware and critical of your actions.

    Self-awareness, from my experience, is about being able to not only be aware of yourself but also to be aware of what is going on around you and your influence and impact over it.

    I’ve learnt to ask why someone does what they do. What have you ‘come for me’ or ‘betrayed me’ or whatever it might be? Is it something I have done? could it be something I didn’t do? Is my action or lack of action right now having a positive or negative effect?

    If someone has walked a path I wouldn’t dream of walking, then there is something going on that I don’t know about. Genuinely ‘evil’ people are rare, and certainly not a common as the press and social media would like you to believe. People, instead, do the best they can with what they have around them at the time. The decisions they make, although questionable to outsiders, at that moment and given the choices they had, may have been the most logical or ‘best’ to them, their values and their view of the world.

    That’s something I have struggled to come to terms with and it has taken me a few years to accept it. It is a challenging thing to accept but once you start living it and making part of how you think, you learn to see the world from a far bigger picture.

    I don’t claim to be an expert on social interaction, far from it, I’ve had my fair share of mistakes, attacks and ‘dramas’ and some of that will never change. But what has changed in recent years is how I respond to them. How I chose to take part in the drama triangle or how I chose not to, let the emotion go and try, instead, to do the right thing for me. Which is what any of us can do.

    If you want to learn more about how to communicate and increase your self-awareness, I am a firm believer in Neuro-Linguistic Programming (NLP). You can find details from the Association
    of NLP     including any local practitioners and local groups that can help you.

    Find UK-Based gay and LGBTQ+ Therapists here

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | The foot fetish

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | The foot fetish

    When it comes to sex, I’ve always found myself to be plain and simple. Not boring, I would like to point out immediately. But I’m not one for these chains and whips activities.

    I mean, I’ve got nothing against anyone who chooses a slightly kinkier sex life than me. Each to their own, that’s what I always say. It’s just not my cup of tea. Or should I say a pot of freshly brewed coffee? I know it’s very unBritish of me, but I can’t stand tea.

    I think my dislike for tea stems back to my childhood. At the risk of sounding Freudian, I blame my dad. Until I was seven, my mum would always serve me a bottle of tea every afternoon. Yes, I know. A bottle. At seven years of age. Perhaps that’s where my oral capabilities come from. Years of sucking on a bottle, drinking my brew.

    But one day, my father got home from work and he demanded that my mother throw my bottle away. From that day in the early 1990s, I’ve never touched a drop of PG Tips again.

    Anyway, back to my tale of the fetishes. I had a boyfriend once who used to demand I call him a slag whilst making love to him. Had me screaming, “you slag!”, he did. Little did I know that he was sleeping with half of London behind my back. Ironically, he was making me speak the truth. Maybe that was his way of absolution.

    A few years later, I met a man who used to like to slap me during sex. Now before anyone becomes concerned for my safety and calls the police, it was only playful slaps across the boat race.

    It did very little for my sex drive but it seemed to turn him on no end.

    I could cope with a little slap every now and then but one day he started to scratch my back in the heat of the moment. Now scratching was still fine with me. I mean, I’d be left with a few red lines down my back for a day or two but there was no lasting damage.

    But then one day, the teeth came out to play. And I’m not just talking around the neck like most normal people. The biting got so bad that I had to take to wearing roll neck jumpers, long sleeve tops, and gloves to cover up the bite marks. So I made the suggestion that he find a fellow gay who enjoys Odaxelagnia.

    For those who can’t be bothered to google that word:

    Odaxelagnia is being sexually aroused through biting, or being bitten. It’s also considered a mild form of sadism.

    Just when I thought I might find a man who enjoyed a plain and simple sex life, along came Jamie. Now Jamie wasn’t a fan of kissing on the lips very much. Oh no, he liked to rummage his face in my armpits and kiss those instead.

    The day he text me and told me not to wear any deodorant that night was the day I feigned a migraine and never did he grace my armpits again.

    And then there was Neil. He was a Scottish man so that should have sent alarm bells ringing immediately.

    He arrived one night on my doorstep, carrying a bottle of Scotch. How romantic to be bearing gifts, I thought. Especially Scotch. I’m rather partial to a wee dram, truth be told.

    After a wee dram or three, he started to kiss me. On the lips. RESULT. No armpits. I laid back and breathed a sigh of relief to be finally getting the plain and simple sex life I’d been craving.

    “Let me suck you!” He demanded.

    Who was I to say no? As he continued to kiss his way down my body, he got to my flies. Mini Mark was poised and ready for action.

    But as I looked down, I found him at my knees. Maybe the scotch had clouded his judgment and as I tried to re-direct his head back up, his lips continued on their journey down my body.

    Before I could say Loch Lomond, I felt my sock being ripped from my foot.

    And before I could say Reflexology, he was sucking my big toe.

  • This company paraded 12 naked people in full rainbow colours for Amsterdam pride for an amazing reason

    This company paraded 12 naked people in full rainbow colours for Amsterdam pride for an amazing reason

    Amsterdam Pride is an LGBT+ festival held annually in Amsterdam during the first weekend of August.

    The festival attracts several hundred-thousand visitors each year and is undoubtedly one of the largest publicly held annual events in The Netherlands. The peak of the festival is during the Canal Parade. The 24th edition of the parade, which this year took place on the 3rd of August, featured 80 boats, which included a selection of people from the STI clinic at healthcare centre GGD Amsterdam, the fire department, the police department, AIDS Fonds, and the City of Amsterdam.

    While the event preached inclusivity, acceptance, and self-identity, it wasn’t all rainbows. Multiple people have come out reporting attacks and verbal abuse. Early on Saturday morning, a lesbian couple was beaten up by two men on a scooter in Amsterdam city centre. According to the Dutch newspaper Het Parool, they were walking hand-in-hand after a night out when they were attacked.

    The women walked away from the attack with bruises, a broken lip and a swollen nose. On the same day, a gay couple was assaulted by four men. The two victims were walking along the Prinsengracht, their arms around each other. This caught the attention of the four assailants. According to NH Nieuws, two other men held each other’s hands in the backseat of an Uber and gave each other a kiss. The driver allegedly verbally assaulted the couple and spat on their faces.

    All incidents have been reported to the police.

    Because cases like these continue to happen, two days before the world-famous Canal Parade, Polette decided to stand up for LGBTQ+ rights by organizing its own parade while bringing a message of love and acceptance to the streets of Amsterdam.

    Founded in 2011 by Pierre Wizman and Pauline Cousseau, Polette has revolutionized and disrupted the eye-wear industry by challenging the traditional optical establishment. The head office in Amsterdam is the creative centre of the company. The designers draw inspiration from everything around them: fashion, music, art, architecture, and everyday life.

    To celebrate this year’s Amsterdam Pride, Polette decided to create a human rainbow flag. While “remembering the past and creating the future” (the theme chosen for this year’s Pride), the 12 body-painted people (me included) marched from the iconic Dam Square to the Homomonument – a memorial which commemorates all gay men and lesbians who have been subjected to persecution because of their sexuality. Polette also filmed a mini-documentary focusing on how far we came as a community. In this mini-documentary, we hear the different stories and perspectives of the different people who took part in this initiative. Can you relate to any of our stories? Let us know in the comments.

     

    Miguel Martins

    (Mister Senior Netherlands 2018 3rd Runner-Up / Winner Public Choice / Winner Best Talent)

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes to Prison

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes to Prison

    This week, The Undateable Gay goes to prison… Not as an inmate, but to run a social event for gay and bi prisoners.

    jraffin / Pixabay

    When I was first invited to visit a male prison and do an interactive social group with the LGBT community inside, I sh*t myself and nearly didn’t commit to the project.

    What the fuck was I going to talk about? Yes, I grew up on quite a rough council estate where crime was high but luckily I’d avoided prison, unlike many of the boys I grew up with.

    The closest I’d ever been on the wrong side of the law was the time I got thrown into the police cells at Brighton nick for being drunk and disorderly. But that’s a story for another day.

    As I pulled up at the prison, it was very daunting. There was this massive building in front of my eyes, surrounded by barbed wire. It was lucky I’d taken a couple of Imodium that morning, let me tell you.

    I was given a tour when I first arrived and it’s very surprising how much it actually looked like the Bad Girls set. I was scared of bumping into any real-life prisoners. I wasn’t sure what the rough, macho, non-gay ones would make of this mincing homo.

    As 2 pm came closer, it was time for me to be escorted to the chapel to begin my LGBT group with the gay prisoners. Yes, it was being held in the chapel. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

    As I was being taken into the chapel, an officer stopped me at the main doors and asked for my name. I obligingly gave it and she announced I wasn’t on the list so I couldn’t gain entry.

    Looking very confused, another officer came to my rescue.

    “He’s not a prisoner. He’s the guest speaker!”

    Realising her mistake, she let me through but I couldn’t help blurting out, “Do I look like a prisoner?”

    I sat down in the chapel after I’d organised the chairs into a circle, a la Alcoholics Anonymous style. My only other option was a straight line and that was far too formal for my liking.

    Sweaty palms and heart palpitations, I saw the big hand heading towards the 2. I didn’t know what to expect. I’d been told I had a man who murdered his husband and an arsonist, among others.

    As they entered, my butterflies escaped through the bars. The husband killer came in and shook my hand, whilst hugging me and kissing me on the cheek. The rest made similar entrances and greetings and automatically put me at ease.

    I’d been far too focused on the fact that I was in a prison and forgotten that in reality, I was just talking to fellow human beings who also happen to be gay. And just so happen to have made mistakes.

    Each person had their own individuality and within seconds, I’d forgotten I was even inside a prison. We talked, we laughed and we discussed sex. A LOT.

    After an hour, a prison buffet was bought into the room for us. It looked bloody delicious. Even though I must confess I was a little wary of eating it after being told it had been prepared by the prisoners in the prison kitchen.

    One of the gay prisoners, Mike, who I took quite a shine to (and he to me), assured me that as long as I wasn’t a paedophile, the food was quite safe to eat. I told him I was guilty of many things, but that wasn’t one of them.

    Whilst shoving a prison-issued cheese roll into my gob, a big Zimbabwean prisoner came and grabbed me by the arm,

    “You look so good! My cell number is 427 if you want to come back later!”

    I nearly choked on my cheese roll and managed to choke out the words,

    “I think you’d split me in two!” which was met with roars of laughter from the whole group. His tight grey jogging bottoms left little to the imagination and it was clear to see he was MORE than well endowed.

    They talked about their lives and it left me feeling rather humbled. Yes, I got bullied at school for being gay but on the whole, I’ve been widely accepted by my family and friends. But some of these men have been abandoned by their families for being homosexual. One of the men was even imprisoned in Russia for attending a gay pride event. It certainly opened my eyes.

    I think it was refreshing for them to be a part of this social group and be able to freely express themselves and their sexuality without any fear.

    Before I was leaving, the prisoners were begging me to go back. They loved our afternoon and it went on much longer than I expected.

    After three hours, the officers were having to chuck me out because we had gone on for far too long and I was putting out the schedules. But it was honestly one of the best experiences of my life. Much better than any money I’ve ever raised for charity. Actually doing a random act, something worthwhile on the front line, from one gay boy to my fellow LGBT community.

    My final words were from Mike.

    “I get out in seven weeks. How can I contact you?”

    I quite fancied him. He was just my type so it would have been rude to discriminate against him just because he’s in prison. So I made sure to tell him how to contact me.

  • 6 totally easy ways you can be a great ally to the non-binary community

    6 totally easy ways you can be a great ally to the non-binary community

    Six ways we can all become a better ally to our gender non-conforming siblings.

    Not everything is binary… kerplode / Pixabay

    In 2018, I happened upon this Tweet during Trans Awareness week and it got me thinking…

    “Also on twitter, stop assuming people’s pronouns based on their profile pic and your binary stereotypes.

    “Read their profile. Check their pronouns. Don’t assume.

    “And while you’re there, put your own pronouns in your profile.

    “Normalise that shit ✨#TransAwarenessWeek

    — Thal (@thalestral) November 12, 2018

    Let me tell you about my own gender expression before we go on. I don’t think of myself as a “man” because I don’t really fit into what society expects of men. When I was a child all I wanted to do was be called a girl, wear high heels, my mum’s dresses and sing Petula Clark’s ‘Downtown’ on repeat.

    I was a Grade A queer/trans kid. As an adult I couldn’t admit that to anyone outside my immediate family. I was so shamed by this behaviour – and bullied mercilessly at school when I chose to wear the white, patterned “girls’” socks instead of the regulation grey socks for boys.

    Nowadays, I dress in typically masculine clothes, I have a boyfriend, I have short hair and people assume that I’m a man and a gay one at that. I respec the privileges that, for the most part, that assumed identity affords me. But, it never really feels right when someone refers to me in that way.

    That said, I don’t mind if people use the pronouns him/his or he when they refer to me.

    Although it does jar me if someone calls me a man.

    Weird? Right?

    I also don’t mind it if I’m referred to with female pronouns.

    I’m pretty relaxed about the pronouns that are used to describe me.

    But for some, words really matter. So here’s some advice to help us all become better allies to our non-binary, gender non-conforming siblings.

    Open your ears and mind

    via GIPHY

    It seems that we’ve all got our lives set to transmit only. We need more receiving in our lives. So when someone is telling you something about them, listen.

    Leave your assumptions at the door

    via GIPHY

    Someone once wisely told me, “Assumptions are the mother of all fuck-ups” – and they were completely right. How often have you assumed something about a situation only to find that nothing was as you imagined? Pretty often, right?

    Your assumptions are based on your own life experience. It doesn’t take into account other people’s experience. So leave your assumptions at the door and again, open your mind.

    Respect pronouns

    rawpixel / Pixabay

    If a person tells you what their preferred pronoun is, accept it don’t fight it. It’s what they’ve asked you to call them. The decision is effectively out of your hands. It’s the same as when someone tells you their name. You accept it and it becomes part of their identity. Well, pronouns are the same.

    Accept that there are lots of different pronouns

    via GIPHY

    Some non-binary, gender fluid and gender non-conforming folks use a number of different pronouns. Some popular ones are: Zim/Zer and Ze, they/them and theirs or even thon, which was actually added to the dictionary in 1964. They as a singular pronoun has been used for centuries.It’s not particularly new, it’s not trend based, it’s just getting a lot of media attention at the moment.

    Stop normalising gender norms

    via GIPHY

    Blue for boys, Pink for girls… gender stereotyping is all so the 1950s and really doesn’t work for today’s society. No one likes living in a predefined box and we don’t live in a black and white world. There’s a whole rainbow out there.

    Gender norms and stereotypes, when adhered to, just keeps society attached to a patriarchal system that’s almost impossible to climb and doesn’t work for all of us, particularly LGBT+ people. So lets bin it shall we?

    Write your own pronouns

    via GIPHY

    Normalise the conversation surrounding pronouns. Write your preferred pronouns in your social media profiles. As @thalestral says on Twitter, “normalise that shit”.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Gives a Girl a go…

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Gives a Girl a go…

    I wasn’t always gay you know. Well, that’s not technically true. My mother always says she knew I was a homosexual from birth. Apparently, I came out doing cartwheels and singing songs from Phantom of the Opera.

    sasint / Pixabay FILE PHOTO

    Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating that slightly but you get the gist. Another giveaway was probably stealing my sister’s dolls and then crying when she wouldn’t let us take it in turns to push the doll’s pram.

    But I’ve digressed here. Gone off the beaten track. Pardon the pun. Where was I? Oh yes, I’d just made the slightly untrue statement that I wasn’t always gay. What is more truthful to say, is that I wasn’t always out to the world.

    And I did that old trick that I’m sure all gay boys are guilty of, especially from my era of the 1980s and 1990s. I pretended that I was bisexual because, to me, it made it seem less scary than saying, ‘Hey I’m a fully fledged 100% penis loving homosexual!’

    So in my quest to prove I wasn’t a fully fledged homo and only a Bi, I decided that I would have to try a girl out for size.

    I used to steal copies of The Daily Sport from the local newsagent. I was a paperboy in my youth you know. I don’t for the life of me know why I stole The Daily Sport.

    Well, I do actually. I was still pretending not to be a pouf. So I thought stealing a paper that had tits in it made me look like a hard man to the boys on my estate. But all I was really doing was trying to impress the boys because I was fantasising about them!

    I’ve kissed quite a few girls in my time, I’ll have you know. It was easy to stick your tongue down their throats. I just pretended it was our postman who I fancied or my P.E. teacher. My P.E. teacher, OH MY DAYS,  I can still remember his face now.

    He was a beautiful man. And he was the reason I could never stand up straight in a pair of shorts during my school years. Every time I saw him, I got a stonking great hard on and had to do my best impression of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame to hide it.

    After a while though, the girls I were kissing weren’t just happy with a snog anymore. We were 16 now and they wanted something other than my tongue inside them. ‘Oh god’, I thought. ‘What was I do?’, I may have kissed them. But never had I felt a hard-on as a result.

    My first attempt at sexual intercourse was with a girl called Tina. I remember it like it was yesterday. I’d sprinkled rose petals all over the bed in my attempt to make it romantic. Yes, I know.

    Rose petals.

    Sheer cheese.

    I’d watched too many episodes of The Bold and the Beautiful during the 1990s.

    And, not surprisingly, it also had an ending like a melodramatic soap opera. We kissed. She got naked on the bed. And then I whipped my clothes off and whapped a condom on.

    Yes, I managed to get hard! I thank the Lord for my vivid imagination. Because that was not Tina on the bed. It was Tinhead from Brookside.

    Just as I was about to make my MARK, (yes, pun intended), Tinhead, sorry I mean Tina, grabbed my arm and pushed me off.

    “I’m sorry! I can’t do it with you. I’m a lesbian!” Oh, the irony.

    My next attempt at proving my bisexuality was with a girl called Hayley. We went camping together. My first time with a girl, under the stars, in a tent, out in a field. I thought this would be so romantic.

    “As I toasted a marshmallow over the campfire for her, I felt her hand caress my thigh. I was nearly as soft and gooey as the marshmallow but along came my vivid imagination once more.

    “And, as if by magic, Hayley was Hunter from Gladiators“.

    Mini Mark was poised, raised and ready for action. I felt Hayley undo my flies. My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. If a girl touches my penis, I’ll be scarred for life, I told myself.

    To stop her wandering hands, and to take her attention away from my penis, I got two fingers and put them up her skirt. I heard her groan, but meanwhile, I was trying to stop myself from gagging.

    I felt like I was prodding a raw fillet steak and to this day, I always have to have my meat well cooked. My bisexual days were over.

    100% Gay man had been erected. Pun intended.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY: The Lucky Escape, when your date turns out to be a thug

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY: The Lucky Escape, when your date turns out to be a thug

    I’m taking you back to 2009 for this tale of dating mayhem. A time when I was just about to graduate from university. I didn’t venture far from home for my degree. I attended Brunel in the, how can I put this delicately, slightly dodgy area of Uxbridge. I’ve always been a bit of a homebird you see, or as some would say, a Mummy’s boy.

    sl3p3r / Pixabay

    To get me through my degree (and to keep me in Savvy B), I had a job in a lovely little gay pub. The Culvert it was called. Some of you may remember it. It’s no longer there unfortunately, which is very sad as it was always such a busy pub. But alas, this is the way a lot of the local gay pubs are going. R.I.P. The Culvert.

    Being the young, cock hungry gay boy that I was, this was the perfect job for me. It was like being an obese bloke in a cake shop. So many to choose from but which one to choose?

    This one night, a very handsome bloke caught my eye. My god, I can remember him like it was yesterday. He was drop dead gorgeous. He had a mop of curly brown hair and the most dazzling brown eyes. But alas, he appeared to be straight.

    It was quite common to get straights in the pub. They often came for a quiet pint or they were accompanying a gaggle of gay mates. But oh well, I thought, at least it gives me a bit of eye candy for the evening. Some people call it perving, I call it appreciating fine art.

    Well, to my surprise, when I approached this straight, handsome man to take his drink order, he placed his hand on top of mine and seductively asked for a pint of Stella. My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he stroked my hand.

    I pulled my hand away from his stroke and I came over all unnecessary. I started to pull his pint, hoping it wouldn’t be the only thing I was pulling that evening.

    I lost all concentration. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His pint of Stella frothed over rather dramatically and dribbled down my trousers. Well, I think it was the Stella that was dribbling down my trousers.

    I felt my face flush. I mean, not that you could tell as I was well and truly fake tanned up.

    “I hope that’s not the only spillage I witness tonight!”, this cheeky handsome chappy shouted across the bar.

    As I handed him his dripping pint of Stella, I felt a bit of sweat on my brow. Panicking I’d have a streaky fake tan moment, I quickly dabbed it and he held out his hand. I shook it.

    “Aaron”, he introduced himself.

    “I’ve not seen you here before.” I started the conversation.

    “I’m visiting from Windsor.”

    He’s a long way from home, I thought. Especially for a pint of Stella.

    “You’re beautiful!” He told me. Sweet talking me he was, but boy did it work. I was putty in his hands.

    “Thank you.” Uncharacteristically, I went shy.

    He stayed standing at the bar all evening, not taking his eyes off me. We made lots of conversation, getting to know each other.

    “Do you live local?” He enquired.

    “Just around the corner”, I replied.

    “Not far for US to go after you’ve finished then.”

    How forward, I thought to myself. Not that I was opposed to the idea, you understand. The answer would certainly be yes. This fit, handsome stranger was definitely coming back to my house.

    As closing time approached, I could feel a little movement beginning in my trouser department. Mini Mark was getting a little excited at the thought of a night of passion with the man from Windsor.

    I rang the final bell to announce it was last orders. That was always my favourite part of working in a pub. It made me feel like I was Peggy Mitchell.

    “I’ll wait for you outside”, said the Windsor fitty as he leant over the bar and attached his lips to mine. Yes, he kissed me.

    My tongue hang out the corner of my lip and drooped down to my chin, Beethoven style, as I watched him walk outside.

    I don’t think I’ve ever mopped a floor as quickly as I did that night. I was like Mr Muscle on speed. Desperate to get out of that pub and make my way into this boy’s boxers.

    As I said goodnight to my colleagues, I rushed out the door and got the shock of my life. I arrived outside just in time to see my potential shag being bundled into a police car. My jaw dropped quicker than a whore’s drawers. I saw Aaron look up at me as the police officer pushed him inside the car, his hand on his head.

    In complete shock, still catching flies, I looked up at the bouncer.

    “What happened to that boy?”

    “He came out and accused one of the regulars of staring at him, called him a poof and then punched him!”

    My eyes widened. I went home on my own that night and have never been so glad to have missed out on a shag.

  • Dear The Real Me: You need to let go of the past

    Dear The Real Me: You need to let go of the past

    Dear The Real Me… You need to let go of past baggage.

    Skitterphoto / Pixabay

    Dear The Real Me,

    A lot has been said to you by a selection of men over the years. There have been a lot of hellos, and even more goodbyes. There have been hours upon end of conversation before days, weeks, or even months of torturous silence. You have been compared to songs with backhanded compliments. You have had your strengths praised – your altruism admired – only for these strengths to seemingly become your relationship kryptonite in the long run. There have been promises of forever. There have been I Love You’s galore. Yet, somehow what always seems to stick the most are the things that are said about you and to you. Why is this, you ask? Because you still – even after twenty-eight years – care far too much about what other people might think about you.

    Look at you now, for example – you’re happy, with a man who loves you, in a job you enjoy, in a flat that is … Spacious? However, you still hold on to all of these words from others as if they are scars upon your skin. The tough love of this situation is that you have to grow up, move on, and let go – and the sooner the better. The thing is, the longer you’re holding on to all of this past life baggage, the more it is affecting your current life in the meantime. There’s a reason you’re only allowed one item of hand luggage on the plane – too much baggage and it can take the whole thing down. Worse still you’ve had this happen before, and god knows you don’t want it to be the situation this time.

    Now, I don’t suggest you stop taking on these words just because others have weighed you down in the past. You just need to shred the old to make room for the new; there are a lot of words being said right now that will mean a lot more to you in the years to come than these old words mean to you right now. Listen to him and look at how far you’ve come – look at it all, the big picture, in widescreen, and HD (4K and all).

    You should have grown past those old words by now, and there’s no one but yourself holding you back from doing that. Listen to those new words and remember the journey you’ve been on; remember those bullies, remember coming out, remember each start and each end, and remember that you are a part of something real right now. These are the things you should be holding on to, not the old words that once felt like they were branded into your flesh. To quote (and possibly paraphrase) The Help, “You is smart. You is beautiful. You is special.” Learn to obsess over this. Or at least try, okay?

    It’s a moment of tough love but listen to me, or at least Latrice Royale with the 5Gs … and Good God Girl, Get a Grip. Realise what you’ve accomplished. Realise what you are. Realise what you have, and live for that.

    Love from,

    You (Hoping to soon be just as real as you.)