THEGAYUK

Category: Column

  • COMMENT | Romanian government uses anti gay political spin

    COMMENT | Romanian government uses anti gay political spin

    In Romania over the last weekend, there was a vote on changing the wording of the constitution of the nation where marriage is defined as between two spouses to between one man and one woman.

    Elionas / Pixabay

    The staunch conservative government had elicited the support and involvement of the Romanian Orthodox church and mounted a campaign against gay marriage. Further taking the unusual step of extending the vote from 1 to 2 days to try and get the required number of votes

    Romania is a country that does not recognise gay marriage or civil unions. So whilst the alteration to the constitution would have blocked future changes in LGBT+ civil rights it would have made no difference now. So what was all of the fuss about?

    My friends in Romania, gay and straight tell me the public perception is this has all been a “smokescreen” to divert attention from what is really going on in the government. One of its most powerful politicians, Liviu Dragnea, has been convicted for his part in a fake jobs scam and sentenced to three and a half years in prison. His appeal against sentence was held up for another month at the start of this week.

    Early indications from pre-voting day polls suggested up to 90% of people would cast their vote. A vote for No would have counted as part of the percentage of the overall number of voters. This is important as 30% of the voting population were required to take part to validate the referendum. In response to this the No campaign had promoted an abstention from voting as a way to defeat the vote by reducing the number of people taking part and forcing the Yes campaign to provide all of the 30% of voters required.

    The referendum was not validated as only 20.4% of voters turned out. A massive result for passive resistance!

    What does this mean for the future of LGBT+ rights in Romania? Is there a softening towards a more accepted view, or were the populous just fed up of being duped by the government?

  • COMMENT | Dame Judi’s comments are a breath of fresh air

    Let he or she who hath not sinned cast the first stone

    SBuckley-Depositphotos

    What a refreshing breath of fresh air are the comments made by Dame Judi Dench at a Spanish Film Festival in relation to Kevin Spacey. It’s about time common sense prevailed and it is a shame it takes an old lady of theatre now 83, to show some realism.

    We seem to be in an age of pious self-righteousness. I have long been sick of the hashtag MeToo# or however it appears. Don’t do twitter!

    Kevin Spacey, the same as many others with a tarnished reputation, has worked on and contributed to our entertainment a vast amount of work, in all of which they play characters and not themselves.

    What would I like to see? Those convicted lose the right to repeat fees. The fees should be signed over for a period or forever depending on the severity and number of crimes to a charity engaged in work in the treatment of their victims or others of similar crimes. In that way the general public can still enjoy the characters they have created with a clear conscience in the knowledge repeat fees are going to help others.

    There has been a trend of outing big names. Always worrying when so many of those who come forward seem to derive publicity they would otherwise be unable to muster, in the absence of allegation.

    In writing this I have come to realise what I thought at the outset of allegations last year was a good thing may have been exploited by some who are wannabe victims for their own end.

    In many ways, it is the path of the predator to have trust, authority or image that is coveted by the vulnerable. It is a minority who are swayed by their own desire to abuse and hopefully it is a similar or lesser number of the vulnerable who exploit easy targets.

    Whether gay or straight or any other designation there will always be predators and victims. It may not always be clear which is which. What I could do better is not to judge from my armchair.

  • COMMENT | The Best Car I’ve Driven

    COMMENT | The Best Car I’ve Driven

    Motoring journalist, Neil Briscoe, on Twitter recently posted up that the best car he’d ever driven was a Mercedes pagoda. It got me thinking. I get to drive lots of new and old cars and those in the middle. But which is my favourite?

    This is difficult because my driving career spans 26 years and when I look back I could say the 1979 Mercedes 280SL but I was 18 when I drove one of those and compared to my second Citroën Visa, it was powerful and luxurious. Likewise I was also 18 when I first drove a VW Beetle and that’s enough to put you off motoring despite wanting one.

    No, it’s taken me some serious thinking, a little bit of drinking and a thumbing through photos and books to come up with my best car I have ever driven. It’s the Peugeot 104 ZS.

    I’ve had 2 of them. Both 1980 models, both blue and both ZS models. The first was quite the wreck but the second was much better. It wasn’t the best car in the world though. In refinement and luxury departments, it was overshadowed by the likes of the Ford Fiesta and Renault 5. It was rather crude and basic despite having electric windows and alloy wheels. It had rubber mats in the rear, piss poor ventilation and a tiny boot.

    What makes it the best car I’ve ever driven was one fundamental thing: I’d look at it and for unquestionable reasons, I’d dread the drive where I had to go. Yet it always entertained. It’s diminutive size and 1360cc engine with 72bhp was hardly left embarrassing itself in traffic of the day. I also had a comfy luxo barge, Peugeot 504 Ti automatic in the garage at the time too.

    On the motorway, it kept up and beyond despite only having a 4-speed gearbox, it was never tiresome or overly noisy. The 12 CD changer in the boot, 6×9 speakers in the rear side panels and 7” in the doors put pay to excess noise by drowning out the cacophony of mechanical screaming to Kylie Minogue and Duran Duran. 

    It was also one of the last cars I have owned where I’d just jump in it late at night and head for the roads in the dark. I’d be out for hours and hours, yellow Sev Marchal headlights cutting through the worst of the night. I did some stupid things in it and yet I lived to tell the tale. It never once got so out of hand that it ended up facing the other way. Something that could not be said for the Peugeot 205!

    The entertaining also stretched to its ability in the snow. Being a home carer at the time, I needed to get out and about in vile weather and that car was amazing in the snow. Small wheelbase with all the weight over the front wheels certainly helped. Its Achilles heel was its wipers. They were slow.

    So here we are, 2018 and the 1980 Peugeot 104 ZS has to be the best car I have ever driven though probably not owned. Oh crap, now I’m thinking about that one. Be right back…

  • Strange Finds: A photo of Cliff and a severed hand

    Strange Finds: A photo of Cliff and a severed hand

    A photo of Cliff Richard and a severed hand. It’s amazing what you can find when you really start looking.

    Alexas_Fotos / Pixabay

    This is the part where I should be telling you about the prophetic experiences in life that define us and help to clarify who the inner being is, enabling us to individually move forward with a deftness of purpose and in the sure knowledge of mind body and soul. Unfortunately, I lack any of that profundity and this is the anecdotal tale of two physical finds that made me laugh, shocked me and made me smile.

    I was nicknamed years ago by a friend as Tom-The Turtleneck! Nothing to do with a long foreskin, more a proclivity for looking to the floor, in case I found something. Though I never did, but I was a trendsetter as long before mobile phones I was already bumping into other pedestrians and lamp posts, because of not looking where I was going.

    A long time ago, well relatively for me, more than half my life since; I lived with the son of a scrap metal millionaire. It was before I was out and our friendship was nonsexual though, it had its physical aspects as I was discovering my sexuality and he was curious about his. I was 20 and he was 24. His dad’s company had as part of its business, a contract for collecting vehicles for whatever reason, seized by the local authority and also the Police contract for collecting cars involved in road traffic accidents. The latter was a 24/7 365 day per year service. For the pedantic among you once every 4 years it was 366 days.

    The phone alongside my bed had the number the Police control centre would call after hours. It was a small double room with a wardrobe two side cabinets and a window onto an inner courtyard. The room was decorated in a muted autumnal colour. The phone was a slimline trim phone.

    On a wet and windy winters night, it rang out and having taken the details I knew it was a full lift of one vehicle involved in a fatal accident with multiple deaths on the entrance to one of the inner city drive-thru underpasses which travelled below an island on the main ring road.

    It was an inconvenient but common occurrence. These events often happened in adverse weather conditions and in the small hours when either speed or alcohol or both were influencing factors.

    Arriving on the scene alone blue Renault 5 was on its roof around 20 yards after the junction to either go left to the island or straight on under to the city. It appeared the driver had been indecisive and at the last minute changed his mind and hit the inner kerb tipping his vehicle over. He had likely been travelling in excess of the speed limit. Driver and passenger were each killed and their bodies had been removed. The attending officers had completed the required measuring up and were now eager to have the obstacle of the upturned car removed in order they could sweep up and re-open the road.

    Using the crane on the back of the lorry we lifted and secured the car, signed for it and returned to drop it off in the scrap yard. At the yard, there was a specific compound (roped off area) where insurance claims were kept. These cars were retained intact until such a time as any investigator or loss adjuster had made their visits.

    Among the debris of broken glass in any such accident, there was often part of the contents of the vehicle which were not at the time of impact secured. So we always had a rummage through the cars and took things such as cassettes. This was the 1980s and a lot of people made really good mixtapes, especially for cars driven such as ours by a boy racer.

    “My housemate had the torch and he shone it in my direction as I lifted my find from the floor. It was a severed hand, more precisely a partially dismembered left hand”

    I was digging around in the front passenger footwell when I found something heavy. My housemate had the torch and he shone it in my direction as I lifted my find from the floor. It was a severed hand, more precisely a partially dismembered left hand. We screamed, really loud girly screams, I dropped the hand and we each ran back a few steps, before recovering our composure. Thank God for a strong sphincter muscle as I very nearly defecated in my tighty whities.

    Daring each other on as only two blokes can who did not want to appear chicken, we went back to the car, shone a torch on the hand, and then ran to the office in the yard and called Police control to inform them of our find. I am not sure they believed our story of doing an inventory of contents at 3.00 AM, outside in the middle of the night in the pouring rain, but they sent a unit to collect the hand.

    My second find is less gruesome. At the turn of the century, I took over a restaurant. The previous incumbent had amongst his businesses had been involved in house clearances. He had left an eclectic mix of furniture boxes and bags.

    In one of the bedrooms, there were black bags filled with photographic slides. I can imagine these were once boxed and catalogued but now they were the disrespected memories of a business and a life that had ceased. They were broken and in disarray. They had been left as they were rubbish and he had been too lazy to clear them away because they had no value.

    In one of the bags, there was the sound of glass clanging on metal. Inside the box I found a biscuit tin. The lid had not been removed for years and it was firmly shut. When I finally managed to lift it, inside were more photographic slides, all broken into many pieces.

    On the base of the tin was something turned face down? I delved in and lifted 10 7×5 black and white photographs. They were each stamped proof and were images taken at a wedding. It was a top hat and tails affair. The style of the time suggested it was in the early 1960s.

    The recurring theme in each of the images was one individual. It was not the bride or groom. When I got to a photograph of this person alone, holding aloft a drink, I recognised him. It was Cliff Richard.

    This was a pleasant discovery. I am not a fan, but on a scale from severed hand to photographs; I rate it highly.

    You may be wondering what happened to them. Nothing I still have them. On the back is the address of the studio, but it has gone and so has the street, so I could not return them to the owner. It is probable that the wedding party got their copies and possibly so did Cliff. I think these were just keepsakes from a day when a photographer met a celebrity.

    In 2000 on the street where the restaurant was located a film crew with a boy band were making a music video. It created much interest on the day. The producer had lunch in the restaurant. He offered me £250 for the one with Cliff on his own holding a glass. He said it might have been taken before he met Billy Graham and became a born-again Christian and as such might be one of the last images of him with an alcoholic beverage. This felt invasive and disrespectful, I don’t want to hurt or offend anyone and I did not feel selling them would be in the best interest of Cliff Richard or in keeping with the wishes of the photographer, who must have known they had a value but kept them for approaching 40 years.

    This has been written because someone prompted me about finds recently and I had not taken them out of the drawer where they are kept for years. In the past when people had come to dinner they had been a talking point until I moved and they became forgotten. I suppose one day after I am gone someone will be going through my belongings and wondering, ”Who are the people in these photographs, they are not his friends or family”, and they will be thrown away as just the memories of another old man.

  • COMMENT | When I Grow Up, I’m Going To Drive

    Something popped up on Twitter recently. An advert for a 1980’s Peugeot 305 GTX diesel estate.

    About 18 years ago I’d promised myself one of those. It won’t happen now though. I don’t need another diesel on the fleet and l certainly don’t need another old car with the ever-increasing difficulty in getting parts when l have three others.

    You see, I am a bit of a motoring pervert. I’m realistic and as a child, my dream-car choices of car reflected this. Despite them being new at the time, they were cheap. I’m a realist you see and it’s probably why I never ended up with a coke habit because, let’s face it, coke is expensive! A Lamborghini is expensive. A Morris Ital estate isn’t.  

    So I thought about those other cars I’d promised myself and picked the top five that I won’t buy.

    Morris Ital Estate

    In 1980 I didn’t know the Ital was in actual fact a Morris Marina. To me, the Ital looked great. It wasn’t. It was a Marina and those were dreadful. The Ital was an end of life crisis revamp for the Marina to buy British Leyland sometime before the replacement was available. Judging by the number of model designation changes that the Ital went through, it didn’t work. They were just desperate to sell it like Ital design studio were to distance itself from the project. 

    I won’t buy one now. I know what it is but a little part of me shall always have a little soft spot for an estate. A little bit, like a fingernail clippings worth.

    Austin Ambassador

    WHAT THE F**K AM I DOING! The Ambassador. Another rehash from BL to buy some time. This time, around two years. The Ambassador wasn’t a bad car. It was the Austin Princess that we should have got in the first place. In that, I mean a hatchback. Why the Princess was a saloon is a question flat earthers really should be spending their time wondering about. 

    I won’t buy one now. I like them though. I think they still look rather good but not in Vanden Plas guise. That chrome trim on the bonnet looked stupid. A bit like the name really. This Ambassador wasn’t really spoiling us at all.

    Austin Montego Saloon

    Now, this is the dirty secret I have held until recently. Andrew Ryan on Twitter ( @andrewryan100 ) recently posted a huge factoid on the Montego. Kept me enthralled and the fire for the Montego was re-lit. The styling of the car was always a joy to look at so don’t get me looking at that three-piece rear window. It was like a bay window for a car and no other car out there had one. I like bay windows. It’s a suburban thing I suppose. A place for nic-nacs like a nodding dog or box of tissues!

    I won’t buy one now. The trouble with the Montego was that it wasn’t that well built, every one I looked at as a child always had mis-match alignment between the headlights and bonnet and a dashboard was rather bland.   

    Renault 17

    These always looked like they were fun. The 17 was the elegant sex pest to the frumpy 15. The rear side windows, covered with louvres, popped inwards. The quad headlights were surrounded by an extension of the bumper. They looked amazing. To top it off, you could get them with an electric folding roof. This was 70’s Europe and such things were frivolous craziness that your grandmother, who’d still wave her ration-book at you, would not approve. Matchbox toys got involved and made a small model of one.  

    I won’t buy one now. This really is a sad moment that I admit that I won’t but I did get to drive one from a guy I started dating. The car wasn’t quite what I expected and as for the date, that wasn’t either. 

    Visa GTi

    I started my driving career with a Visa. And I progressed steadily through the many engine changes including the 2-cylinder and the diesel. I even had a convertible one too. Trouble was, insurance for a young man back then on a GTi was impossible or expensive. And then you had the fuel economy. I was used to the high 40s and beyond with the diesel. The GTi couldn’t do that.

    I won’t buy one now. Most have rusted away sadly or their thin bodywork has gone all crinkly and out of shape. And to be honest, I have had five of them and you can have too much of a good thing. 

    So there you go, 5 cars I’ve hankered after for all these years that are not going to happen. That said it does mean I am not ruling out a VW 411 or Lancia Beta coupe. Watch this space. 

  • MOTORING | My week with the 4×4 Tamiya Toyota Bruiser

    MOTORING | My week with the 4×4 Tamiya Toyota Bruiser

    A week in Toyota Toy Town

    I’ve just spent the past week pretending I was Calvin Brookman. Never heard of him? Then you need to brush up on your Tamiya history. Calvin was the driver of the Tamiya 1985 model 58048, the Toyota 4×4 Bruiser. Now bizarrely for Tamiya, this model never came with a driver so for all intents and purposes, he looked exactly like me. How uncanny.  

    Fast forward 32 years or 471 models later and Tamiya has re-released the much often drooled over model that most of us wanted from the top shelf. To celebrate this release and an almost 40-year partnership Toyota have with Tamiya, Toyota GB set about turning their current Hilux Extra Cab vehicle into a real-life homage to the Tamiya model.

    I met with my R/C hero in the carpark at work. It sat there as bold as brass. You couldn’t miss it and did I laugh. This thing is a bit of a monster. Subtlety is not its strong point and yet it does have an air of soft cuddliness about it. We’ve all taken our favourite R/C model to bed and this 1:1 scale model is no different. I got it dirty and washed it for crying out loud. I just didn’t want it going home dirty! 

    Toyota has done an amazing job in its recreation. In doing this they have also done something else to the Hilux which I’ll discuss later. A snazzy wrap of camp sparkling blue and Bruiser graphics would fall flat on there face if it wasn’t for the fact that this truck has been given the kiss of the lift by Arctic Trucks. Gone are the standard Hilux 265/65 17 wheel combo for a more robust 305/80 17 mix. It’s a lot of chunky rubber. 

    There’s also a reworking of the bits underneath too, with uprated Fox Shox suspension and to maintain the speedometer accuracy, they reworked the differential gearing. Quite important this when on the M23 with average speed cameras in operation.  

    Now you won’t find any of the extras on the Bruiser in the Toyota Hilux accessory brochure. Toyota teamed up with model maker Robert Selway who had the task of adding the all important on/off switch as well as the bumper bars. 

    So the time arrived for me to slide the switch to ‘on’ and roll out with my battery pack fully charged. OK so the switch wasn’t that in the rear bed but the ignition key in my hand and this isn’t powered by batteries but a 150bhp 2.4-litre diesel engine going through a 6-speed manual gearbox. 

    One thing that becomes apparent is the tyre noise. Over 40mph and these things make more noise than RuPaul’s Drag racers at full bitch.

    Girl, they are chatty! That, however, is the only fault and even then it’s hardly a problem. This new set up makes the Hilux even better to drive than the one we tested in 2017. There is less pitch and the ride is more compliant. There is an element to understeer if you press too hard and an amount of tail out in the wet. Like any pick-up though, 4 wheel drive is best selected in the wet when the rear is light of a load.

    And you best get used to the stares the truck gets. It’s not for the shy. Like a secret cult, those who know give you the thumbs up or a knowing nod. It’s appreciated. This is when you suddenly really start to fall in love with the truck. It lacks the luxury features of the Hilux Invincible but this is only because they are not available on the extra cab model. Shameful really because this model with its mini suicide rear doors really is a handsome beast.  

    Now down to the nitty-gritty. Would I have one? No is the answer. It’s just too big to park in the high street. And it is totally unnecessary for me in this guise. My daily commute route had to be altered to accommodate its bulk. That said, just look at it. What’s not to love? I tell you what, not a lot. The wheels are impossible to curb and the thing sort of glides over speed bumps. Toyota GB, I’ll swap you my much-prized Sand Scorcher? I WANT THIS!

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Premature Ejaculations

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Premature Ejaculations

    SO. In case anyone has forgotten, I’ve already been on two dates with my lovely blokey from my speed dating success story. And we’ve just had our third. I keep thinking that any moment, someone is going to slap me and wake me up from my dream. I mean, not that I’ve got a fetish for being slapped or anything.

    Three dates done and dusted. That’s some kind of record for this gay boy, this undateable gay. I’m expecting a knock on my door from The Guinness Book of Records any minute now.

    I decided that this was the right time to introduce him to my mother. So I arranged an afternoon tea with plenty of cakes. People who know me well know that my biggest weakness, besides men, is cakes. Give me a Belgian bun and I’m like a pig in shit. Happy for hours.

    KNOCK, KNOCK. That was us knocking on the door, by the way, arriving at my mum and dad’s house. They actually have a doorbell so I don’t know why I wrote knock, knock. It should have been DING DONG. Digressing…. anyway, you get the gist, we had arrived for afternoon tea.

    As my mother answered the door, I could see her eyes light up at how handsome Paul was. She was acting like a bloody magpie seeing a glitter ball. You could see the pride in her eyes that her gay son had bagged himself a bit of a fitty. Although now I come to think about it, I don’t like quite how shocked she seemed to be at me managing to bag myself such a handsome man. I must talk to her about that a later date. Note to self.

    I made the necessary introductions and Paul took my mother’s hand and kissed it.

    “Nice to meet you!”

    Now for anyone who knows my mother, will know that she fills up and cries at the drop of a hat, at the slightest thing she wells up.

    I’ve witnessed my mum cry at X Factor, Loose Women and even Homes under the Hammer. And this is exactly what I witnessed now. Obviously, Paul’s good manners were too much for her and she felt overwhelmed. My god, I didn’t know where to look. Although I was looking around for a hanky.

    I’ve witnessed my mum cry at X Factor, Loose Women and even Homes under the Hammer. And this is exactly what I witnessed now. Obviously, Paul’s good manners were too much for her and she felt overwhelmed. My god, I didn’t know where to look. Although I was looking around for a hanky.

    Once she’d pulled herself together and I’d given her a slap to stop her crying. (That’s a joke, before anyone reports me to the police. I don’t actually beat up my mother.) She finally poured the coffee and offered around her freshly made cherry macaroons.

    My mummy is a bit of a Mary Berry when it comes to baking. She’s always got tins upon tins of cakes ready for visitors.

    Paul made a very good impression that afternoon and I could definitely tell that my mum approved. In fact, I’d known she’d approved from the moment she broke down in tears after the kiss on the hand.

    As we left and walked to the car, I turned and gave Paul a kiss of my own. I planted a great big smacker on his lips.

    “What was that for?” He gushed.

    MASSIVE GREAT BIG STRENGTH SIX MATURE CHEDDAR CHEESE ALERT

    “Just for being you,” I replied.

    Now, this next part may make some people call me a slut. What they call slut, I call enjoying the male species. I think it’s very important to try a few different platters from the buffet table, else how do you know what you like?

    Anyway, I digress once again. The point I was getting to was that, here we were, three dates in and we still hadn’t enjoyed any kind of sexual relations. (No Bill Clinton jokes here please)

    So to solve this dilemma, I asked him back to mine and before you could say blow job, I had him on my bed and were enjoying a very passionate kiss. Fully clothed, may I add.

    As I went to undo his trousers to rip them off, he grabbed my hand to stop me. I looked up, shocked, like a rabbit in headlights.

    “Before you go there, there’s something I need to tell you.”

    Well, talk about mind racing into overdrive moment. My mind filled with all sorts of visions and scenarios. After a silence of what felt like days, I pleaded.

    “What? What is it Paul?”

    “I’ve got a really small willy.”

    Phew. My mind slowed down and stopped racing. I looked up to the sky, thankful I wasn’t about to unzip a pair of trousers and reveal a vagina. A small willy I can cope with. A vagina, I cannot.

    Now, for people who know me very well, will realise a small willy will never put me off. One, because I’m not a shallow, size Queen. And two, the good Lord did not bless me downstairs either.

    In fact, a man once told me that he could use my penis as dental floss. (Bastard) But that’s another story for another day.

    To prove to Paul that the small willy revelation had not killed the passion, I continued in my quest and unzipped his trousers. And as I did, I got the most almighty surprise.

    To prove to Paul that the small willy revelation had not killed the passion, I continued in my quest and unzipped his trousers. And as I did, I got the most almighty surprise.

    An eyeful of cum. As I blinked to remove the foreign object from my eye, his face turned a beautiful shade of Lobster.

    “You just turn me on so much.”

    My one eye, the one not sealed shut with his natural adhesive, widened.

    “Clearly. I mean, I know I’m good”, I gushed, “But I hardly even touched you yet.”

    “I LOVE YOU!” He suddenly blurted out.

    I sat back on the bed, still temporarily blinded in one eye.

    “You what?” I was aghast.

    Before anyone calls me a silly poof for my actions,  can I just point out that the three dates had all taken place within a ten-day time frame.

    “How can you love me? You barely know me.”

    “I can’t help the way I’ve fallen for you.”

    Call me mental. Call me mad. Call me destined to be undateable for a whole lifetime. But I just couldn’t truly believe that someone could fall in love that quickly. And genuinely mean it. So I asked him to leave.

  • COLUMN | When music leads you down memory lane (and the boys we used to lust over)

    COLUMN | When music leads you down memory lane (and the boys we used to lust over)

    It Really Was Just “Wishful Thinking”

     from a great song

    Music is a funny thing. It does evoke such memories and for the majority of the time in my life, they are good ones. Even if the outcome hasn’t been as I had wished for, I can still see the goodness in it. Misinterpreting, however, is easily done when it seems to offer an escape or fits a situation even if that wasn’t what the artists intended. One song in particular just does it for me.

    “China Chris” ‘Wishful Thinking’ came on the radio the other day. I loved that song. Even though the song was released in 1984, I loved it even more back in 1994. I’d bought a CD titled Electric Dreams and at the time it was the only album l played. It also went well with a 1980 Citroën GS Club estate l had at the times.

    Anyway back to the song in hand by China Crisis. Apparently, it’s not a gay song and yet when you look at the song cover sleeve you can see why I thought it was. Lead singer Eddie Lundon was fit. Bandmate Gary Daly was looking up at him sort of in my eyes wishfully thinking what I was.

    Listen to the song and you can quite easily see why, as a confused 19-year-old youth with a longing for the man from Securicor deliveries, that I made it about him.

    “It’s time we should talk about is

    There’s no secret kept in here

    I see the likeness in his smile and the way he stands

    Makes it all worthwhile”

    Just those last two lines from that chorus did it. I would stand at the window of the awful soft furnishing shop I worked in and look out for him whenever the blue Securicor Ford Transit van would pull up down the high street.

    My word, l was in lust with him. I’ll spare his name though don’t think for one second I haven’t looked him up on Facebook. I’m not very good at stalking and I failed miserably. I’ve either not quite got the last name right or he simply isn’t there. Just getting his name was a feat of success that I remember it well. I can’t tell you how I kicked myself with joy when l did. I even kept the piece of paper with his name in and I still have it to this day.

    Life was simpler for a 19-year-old Stuart with no mortgage to pay.

    I can’t quite admit that l would find fault in fabrics and curtains just so they would be returned and that he’d have to come in to collect but I did. Lust is a silly thing. Makes you do silly things. Didn’t resort to stalking though, as I say I’m not very good at it. I didn’t have time either. To be honest, where do people find time to stalk people?

    Back to Mr Securicor, he was just perfect. Or so I thought. One day he came in and told me he was leaving to become a supervisor. He broke my heart. He left me, stranded in the shop I hated and never to be seen again and he wasn’t. I never saw him again. Except for today when that song came on the radio and again after that when l played it on loop for about 15 times not sobbing uncontrollably into the sleeve of my jumper. If I can’t be an excessive stalker, then at least let me stalk with a song and happy thoughts.

    Our returns reduced quite dramatically after that and where is he now? Haven’t a clue. It was a silly lustful crush and “Wishful Thinking”… only just.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes on a double date with some lesbians

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes on a double date with some lesbians

    The Undateable Gay gets a second and third date…

    Pexels / Pixabay

    Well. After my speed dating success, I was floating on the clouds. I couldn’t believe it was third time lucky with my date. I’m so excited about him. Let me introduce you to him.

    Meet Paul, a 32-year-old funeral director from Windsor. Such a handsome chap with bright blue eyes. Oh my days, those eyes. Excuse the cheesy analogy but I could have gone swimming in his old pork pies.

    I must confess, I was a little concerned by his chosen vocation. I’ve always imagined funeral directors to be big burly blokes who look like they could be extras in the Terminator films. And I’ve always pictured them to be rather dull and a possible necrophile.

    I can see me getting lynched in the street now by a mob of co-operative funeral care workers. Please excuse my judgemental attitude. I must constantly remind myself of my Christian upbringing. My Sunday school teachers clearly made an impact on me.

    Now for some reason, I was feeling rather nervous of a second date with Paul. I felt a fluttering of butterflies deep in my gut. For once, I’m imagining that I might have actually met a man who may be around longer than just for a cup of coffee, the morning after. So I wanted to make a good impression.

    My dear friend Natalie suggested that we make up a foursome with her then-girlfriend, Britney. No, not Britney Spears but she did have the similarity in that she was also American. But that’s where the similarities ended.

    We opted for a lovely little Italian restaurant in Windsor, the name of which escapes me. My memory is not what it once was.

    After all the pleasantries were out of the way, we sat down and the conversation flowed like the Thames at high tide. I could see Paul had a glisten in his eye whenever we looked at each other. Well, I hope that’s what it was and not the reflection of the candle in his pupil. The somersaults my stomach were doing would have been worthy of a gold medal in the Olympics.

    As the waiter came to take our order, Paul suggested we share a garlic bread as a starter. Anyone who knows me well, will know I do NOT share food. Under any circumstance.

    The mere suggestion of sharing a garlic bread made my eyebrows raise. Yes, they actually raised. I was still a week away from my botox top-up appointment at the time.

    Natalie knowing my sheer greed gaged my reaction and kicked me under the table. And gave me one of her death stares. She’s a teacher so she has this look perfected. I gulped and begrudgingly agreed to share a starter. You may be sat there reading this, calling me a fat bastard. But I love my food and I want it all to myself. Maybe this is another thing I’m doing wrong that’s contributing to my undateable status.

    The reveal

    A few more Italian Pinots later and Natalie started interrogating my poor date.

    “Would you like children one day? Because Mark would.”

    I nearly dropped my glass of Pinot. Of course, being such an alcoholic, I managed to grip it tight enough to ensure this didn’t happen. Bit forward for a second date question, I thought to myself but at least it wasn’t me who posed the question.

    “I already have children.” Paul immediately replied.

    Just at that precise moment, I was taking a gulp of Pinot and to say I spat it out and nearly choked on it would not be a dramatization.

    “You’ve got children? Plural?” I asked.

    “Yes”, he seemed perfectly happy to talk about it and I did my best to pretend the subject hadn’t shocked me.

    “Oh my god. Boy or girl?” I asked, genuinely intrigued. I’d never met a gay man with a child.

    “I have three sons.”

    Well, you could have heard a pin drop in that restaurant. No one said a word.

    As my dear mum always tells her friends, I’ve never been speechless since the day she sent me to speech therapy when I was four. But I was certainly speechless now.

    Whilst we’re on the subject of my mum sending me to speech therapy. Yes, I understand people may find it hard to believe but I hadn’t actually started talking and being as though I was four years old, she started to worry. Hence why she marched me to speech therapy. But ever since that day, my mum always says she regretted sending me.

    But I’m digressing as usual. Back to the bombshell that had just been dropped in the Italian restaurant. As my friends will tell you, I don’t handle myself in the best manner during serious situations. I have what you might call a nervous laugh. And God strike me down, this is how I reacted to this situation.

    Natalie, having a tad more decorum than me, kicked me under the table to indicate this was not an appropriate moment to activate my nervous laugh. As if I have control over it…

    “Why are you kicking me?” I barked at Natalie, not immediately clocking on to why she had booted me with her size 5 Doc Martens.

    Finally processing the information, I could see this was a brave bit of information to reveal so early on in our dating period. I grabbed his hand.

    I could tell we both meant something to each other because he said he had never revealed this information to a potential boyfriend before. And so I leant over and kissed him on the lips. I’m not one for PDA’S but this just felt the right moment.

    “I hope I get to see you again after tonight”, he said.

    “Try and stop me.” I replied.

  • THE KNEE JERK | The tale of Tom Dick and Harry – and finding love at work

    Tom (That’s me) got a job working nights in a staff canteen in the next town. Dick and Harry already worked there on the shop floor. I met each of them separately when taking their order for food.

    Dick lived with his sister at the outset, though desperate for independence as he wanted somewhere to take by a girl (much the same as any other red-blooded man in his 20s who is straight might). Harry lived alone and although he never said it, mostly because it was so obvious he was a ‘screaming queen’, not a bone in the wrist my dear!

    Nights turned into weeks that turned into months. I had established banter with Harry who was totally blind to my undisclosed closeted sexuality and a rapport with Dick much the same as I had with many of the other staff male and female alike.

    The living situation of Harry with his sister seemed to hit a crisis point and he, as a stop-gap moved in to live with Dick, who after all had a spare room. It seemed a good fit they had been friends for years and each work nights and sharing the same nocturnal lifestyle.

    On a Wednesday night a couple of weeks ago Dick came to me to cancel Harry’s order for chips at break time. It seems Dick had been on Grindr whilst working and had been offered cock, so was declining the vegetarian option in favour of ‘meat’. Don’t know what pic he had on Grindr but I wouldn’t let my dog near him even if I dipped his cock in TCP first. He has the appearance of a walrus who has been shaven whilst sleeping and then immersed in water until after death bloating has occurred.

    Dick was completely nonplussed in delivering this message. I queried it with him and asked why he had come to tell me Harry was going off for a sexual encounter? He told me Harry was very open and they had no secrets and he did not think it would shock me.

    Around this time Dick was becoming increasingly tactile with me, appearing to take every opportunity to come into the kitchen, to be alone with me. I didn’t see the signs increased levels of touching for prolonged periods desensitising me and getting increasingly close to being intimate. I desperately need to have my Gaydar radar serviced. Then when he brushed up against I suddenly became aware he had something in his pocket the size of an electric screwdriver and it felt like it had been left on the pulse setting.

    Dick, it turns out is ‘straight’ into the nearest man’s bed! Worse in a world of gay men where Harry hadn’t spotted me he had. He’s younger than me single and whilst he is not handsome; sweetheart who am I to complain? I’m so damn ugly I scare children and old ladies in the daylight and set canines a howling.

    So Dick likes cock and I like Dick’s dick. It’s all very clandestine as he insists he is straight. We meet in the daytime and I drive him 20 miles back to mine and then back to near to his home. Neither of us are telling Harry who tells me he thinks Dick is seeing some ugly bird as he never brings her back!

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes Speed Dating

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes Speed Dating

    “After his first question, ‘Which is your favourite train model?’ (I kid you not), we sat in silence. I don’t think he was impressed with my answer. I told him my favourite train was Thomas. Before the bell rang to signal the end of the three minutes, he had already got up and left the date”

    I don’t know why I didn’t think of it years ago. I’ve tried Grindr, Plenty of Fish and various other dating apps. I’ve attempted blind dates, set up by well-meaning friends. I’ve even turned my hand, or should that be legs, to bike rides in the country. All to no avail.

    So I saw an advert for speed dating in Leicester Square and decided I had nothing to lose. Other than a clock load of three minutes.

    I came to the conclusion that even I couldn’t go wrong with speed dating. Only three minutes with each man. Surely even I couldn’t show myself up in that time frame.

    This will come as no surprise to my friends, family or avid followers of this column, but I had a Savvy B to calm my nerves and give me a drop of Dutch courage. A rather large drop of Dutch courage. I say a glass, it was actually a bottle.

    The bell rang and it was time for my first three-minute date. I was at a table with a rather handsome man, who at a guess, I would place in his early forties. He had such beautiful eyes, I felt myself start to swoon. I believed I was about to meet my perfect man.

    Well, let me tell you this, whoever coined the phrase, looks can be deceiving deserves a medal. He opened his mouth to tell me his name was Derek. He had a voice which only the word monotone could be used to describe. Trainspotter springs to mind.

    After his first question, “Which is your favourite train model?” (I kid you not), we sat in silence. I don’t think he was impressed with my answer. I told him my favourite train was Thomas. I mean, I was only joking but he had obviously had a sense of humour bypass. Before the bell rang to signal the end of the three minutes, he had already got up and left the date. RUDE. Things can only get better. I hoped.

    I’d never been so grateful to hear a bell in my life. Well, apart from dinner time back in primary school. I was a fat kid, what can I say? I got up and moved to my next victim. Whoops, I mean man.

    I found myself sat opposite another handsome man. But I told myself not to judge a book by its cover after my first failure. Wait until you hear him speak, I heard a voice in my head tell me. And when he did, I fell in love. He was very posh, well-spoken and far from monotone.

    He asked me a question about my occupation and as my gob opened, I saw an eyebrow raise on his boat race. Our voices and accents couldn’t be any more opposite. He clearly came from Barnes and me from Staines.

    “It’s like being on a date with a character from EastEnders!” I kid you not, those were the exact words that left his mouth. I would have raised my eyebrows too, but after botox, I struggle to perform this action.

    He was clearly put off by the way I spoke so instead of raising my eyebrows, I raised my arse from the seat and finished the date prematurely. Third time lucky I hoped as the bell rang again.

    I clutched onto my glass of Savvy B and decided it WOULD be third time lucky. I may be the unluckiest gay in the dating world but I would never lose my optimism. PMA. Positive mental attitude. I’m going to have it etched on my gravestone.

    I sat down at the next table, well I say sat. I’d had a few glasses of New Zealand plonk by this point, so the word stumble is a more appropriate description of how I travelled to my seat. I soon sobered up as I clapped eyes on my next potential beau. DING FUCKING DONG.

    It was a refreshing joy to finally meet a VERY handsome man who seemed reasonably normal. And we seemed to hit it off like a house on fire. We laughed together and he even asked me out for a drink after the speed dating had finished. Maybe the undateable gay’s curse is finally lifting. WATCH THIS SPACE…