THEGAYUK

Category: Column

  • Haynes Pictures Tell a Thousand Words

    Haynes Pictures Tell a Thousand Words

    …well 958 actually.

    Someone l follow on Twitter recently mentioned about looking at the car pictures in the Haynes manual and it got me thinking. A lot of my misspent youth was spent wasting hours and hours of it reading through the Haynes manual when l should have been studying or doing homework. You see, I started to buy Haynes early in life. I was about 13. My first was a for the 65-75 VW Beetle 1300 and 1500.

    30 years later and I still have it.

    Apart from Terry Davey’s art illustrations on the front, it was always the actual picture inside that l would while away the hours dreaming about. And my addiction for the Haynes didn’t just stop at a few. It didn’t even stop at the cars I owned. Remember I was 13 when I started to buy them. Correction, collect them. I had all sorts. My addiction was fed with a super injection of Haynes workshop manuals that my father’s friend was throwing out.  

    So 30 years later and I hate to admit that I did cut some of them out of my collection but only due to space. Out of the 26 left, how many of the cars have I owned? 9 which now I look at it I don’t think was so bad. 

    OK, it was bad, that’s a third and spread over 3 decades. But what about the ones with the pictures I lusted after. Well, I sat down, pondered, regaled in the joy as I thumbed through a few and put together my top 3.

    3) The Citroën Visa 79-88 652cc – 1580cc

    This is a bit of a cheat because at the time the family had a Visa. It would become my first car. That didn’t, however, stop me from lusting after the picture of the Visa GTi in the supplement section. 

    It sat there on a wet floor in an industrial estate. It wasn’t even registered. There was no need for Haynes to cover the licence plate. This was fresh!

    The crazy headiness of what a Visa with a 1600cc injection engine would feel like over my fathers 954cc 10E almost feels me to this day with an actual squeal and bust blood vessel. Forget all this though as the GTi had 4 headlights! 

    Now in my day, a fast sporty car had extra lights. Those quad lights gave the humble French hatchback as an aggression that belied its humble beginnings. 

    2) Fiat X1/9 74-89 1290cc – 1498cc


    Top off, wind in the hair, mid-engined handling and pop-up headlights all contained in a little package that your hairdresser drove. Actually, ours drove a Golf convertible, same difference really just different car. 

    I did manage to get to touch the inner working of an X1/9 at a young age of 15 when I used a friend’s for an art project. I have to admit it now that I was obsessed with the pop-up headlights. THEY POPPED UP! So I had pictures of it with lights up and lights down. I’d watch them with amazement.

    The picture was of a ‘Series Speciale’ complete with ladder graphics but no alloy wheels that we got in the UK. This was also left-hand drive thought this didn’t worry me one jot.

    The roof was off. The sun was streaming onto the fabrics and it looked the nuts. I would lay on my bed thinking about storming up the lanes near our home and taking sweeping corners that I was only then able to do so on my mountain bike. 

    I’ve owned this car and the reality is quite different. Mine tried to kill me on a corner once. 

    1) Volkswagen Transporter 72-79 1700/1800/2000


    This is a special one. Haynes did 2 for the Transporter and I picked this one by mistake. It had this funny engine that I had not seen on a VW. The pictures were a young boy’s wet dream of fantasy rolled into 2 pages. 

    The cutaway illustration was a mass of details and based on the Microbus deluxe. That extra trim still makes me giddy though I have never been able to work out why there is a bumper bracket when there isn’t one?

    Cut to the picture inside and it wasn’t the camper that I wanted but the 7 seat microbus with US side markers. I said to myself there and then that I would have a bus from the US.

    Now what made this picture all the more dreamlike was the lady in saddles who sat by the open sliding door. The dogtooth tartan print of her slacks did it. I wanted those slacks.  

    Many years one and I have been that sad to track down an original press picture of that, VW 2863-73 and the sales pamphlet that it came from that year. Sadly I haven’t been able to find the slacks but I did recently buy bedding from Dunelm that matched. And that’s good enough for me.

    Ownership has been every bit as joyful as the picture even though mine is a camper model because I like to have somewhere to sleep. What it never told me was the abysmal 18 miles to the gallon you got. How did the hippies run these things?  

    I’ve managed to own two of these dream cars of mine, all three if you include the Visa as a collective of the range. It has taken some time and the odd distraction along the way but don’t ever let your focus be blurred.

    Dreams are achievable, just be realistic and don’t aim for the Lamborghini Countach. Haynes never did a manual for that one any.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes for a ride

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes for a ride

    Now I know dear readers that you will automatically assume that I am talking about sex. But I’m actually talking about the innocent act of riding a bike. And before any smart arses ask what bike riding has got to do with a dating column, let me fill you in. Pun intended.

    renategranade0 / Pixabay

    I’d been loosely seeing a lovely man from Chichester, the odd date here and there, the occasional stroll along the harbour, the rare fornication or three. Now you may have noticed that I’m referring to him in the past tense. Just for why will become clear by the end of this column.

    Just before Easter, this said man invited me on a mini break to West Wittering in West Sussex. To quote Bridget Jones, “a mini break, it must be true love!” I was so excited, I’d never been whisked away on a mini-break before. I was getting butterflies inside, certain that this was the man for me.

    And for those of you who know West Wittering and the surrounding areas, will know what a beautiful part of our country it is. My absolute favourite place in the whole wide world!

    I made the suggestion that we go for a bike ride on our first day. I could think of nothing more exciting or romantic than riding along together, through country lanes and down sand dunes, with the wind rushing through our hair, staring into each other’s eyes over the handlebars.

    Now the only issue I had was my car. For those close to me will know that my car is the size of a smart car, so there was no way my bike was fitting in that. But my dear Father came up with the solution. I could borrow his fold-up bike. I said yes, but that was before I’d clapped eyes on it. What a god awful contraption. It has to be seen to be believed.

    Day one and the sun was shining down on us in West Sussex. To quote a dear friend, the sun always shines on the righteous.

    After Chichester man had contained his fit of the giggles at the sight of my Father’s fold-up bike, we set off for our ride like a scene from Gone with the Wind.

    As the wind tickled my ever balding scalp, I turned to look back at my riding companion. And joy filled my heart along with the ripe sea air filling my lungs. God, I sound like I’m writing a sickening romantic novel this month.

    We’d ridden about two miles when we arrived in Bracklesham Bay and I noticed a lady walking along with a pram. Chichester man had now overtaken me and was a few hundred yards ahead. He seemed to be much faster than me as you could hardly gather much speed on my Father’s archaic fold up contraption.

    In the silence of the country lanes, I suddenly heard a loud snapping sound which echoed down the street. Even the lady with the pram heard it and we shared eye contact as the confusion on our face was mutual. As I fell backwards from the bike, it soon became clear that the snap was the saddle. And the next thing I knew, I was on my back in the gutter, legs akimbo with a saddle on top of me and a bike slumped in the kerb.

    I let out an almighty shriek as I went down like a sack of shit. The shriek could be heard on the Isle of Wight. And people gathered around me and all I could see were faces staring down at me. After the circle of faces realised nothing more than my pride was hurt, they dispersed and carried on about their business. I stood up, bike in one hand, saddle in the other.

    Chichester man was nowhere to be seen. Had he not seen what had happened to me? Had he not realised I was no longer riding along behind him? Or had he felt too embarrassed to acknowledge he was with the saddle snapping gay boy? I would just like to take this opportunity to point out that the bike’s weight limit is 15 stone and I am only 12 stone, 11 pounds.

    Realising my mini-break companion had done a Houdini on me, I decided to walk back and find the nearest pub. I needed a pint. As I strolled into the pub with the saddle in my hand, a man looked at me most peculiarly.

    “That’s a funny looking bike!” he dared to remark. To which I snapped back,

    “Don’t even talk to me about this fucking bike!” Poor man. I bet he wished he’d never commented.

    The moral of the story. Never ride a fold up bike. And never assume a mini-break means true love.

  • In defence of gay hotels and resorts

    Our editor in chief, Jake Hook looks at why gay resorts and hotels are still necessary in 2018.

    I’ve just come back off holiday – and while I battle the post-holiday, aeroplane lurgy, I can’t help thinking that one of the most memorial moments of the holiday was our 2 days in a gay-only hotel.

    There was a time when the idea of choosing a “gay hotel” as a place to vacay was totally off the cards. Why would I want to segregate myself from the rest of society? Why would I want to just limit myself to “gay conversations”? And anyway, aren’t guys who go to gay resorts just after one thing?

    Perhaps some of them are. But here’s what I learned from my stay at Key West’s The Equator Resort, in Florida.

    Not everyone who’s at the resort is looking for sex

    Okay, some are. Whacking on your Grindr will identify those around you who are looking for something a little more than a suntan, but there aren’t people actively pursuing you around the pool. Guys are there to chill, check out the sights, get to know new people and generally hang out in a safe, non-judgemental space.

    Bodies come in all shapes and sizes

    My historical success with nudity is somewhat patchy, but what I learned from this stay was that us gay men come in all shapes, colours, sizes and well dick sizes – and it’s all good. Yes, even I may have slipped off my trunks in the pool.
    Even better, however, is that seeing all those bodies really helped me tackle my own body insecurities. Seeing others in the altogether help me reevaluate my relationship with my love handles.

    There’s no heteronormativity

    We live in a world where 99.9 percent of everything is geared towards heterosexual couples and gender binaries. Hanging about with other guys who identify as gay or bisexual, makes being gay at the front and centre. Gay literally becomes the norm at a gay resort.

    You don’t have to watch what you say

    You probably realise that there aren’t many subjects that are off limits when you hang around with other gay guys. Everything goes: anal to sunscreen, hooking up to the best restaurant in town to coming out. Honestly, my conversations were so varied.

    There are no screaming kids

    There is nothing worse than seeing that the expensive resort you’ve booked has a “kids’ zone” or “kids’ pool”. I don’t want to spend my holiday listening to screaming, whining kids. I can whine enough for anybody. I simply don’t need the competition. Sorry, not sorry.

    Lifelong friends

    I’ve been on a gay cruise and stayed at two gay resorts, every time making new friendships that have lasted. The moment you arrive, there’s always someone to talk to, get to know – and you know, if it feels right to take things further.

    Here’s to gay stays and long may they last.

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.

  • THE KNEE JERK | My driving is apparently “gay”

    THE KNEE JERK | My driving is apparently “gay”

    Apparently, my driving is Gay!

    tookapic / Pixabay

    I took a colleague with me the other night and dropped him off home as it was on my way.

    Today I overheard him talking with others and he described my driving as “gay”! I felt compelled to challenge him. You see I was not out at work, but using the term gay in a derogatory way just makes the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up; I think my upper lip curls to a snarl too.

    It would appear my adherence to the speed limit and signalling was the reason for terming my driving as “Gay” or ‘like a woman.’

    He went on in front of his young friends to tell me all about the advances of modern technology and how quick a car could brake. One of his friends has a ‘souped up’ hatchback (I actually think it has spoilers, skirts, fancy wheels and a big shiny exhaust; but a standard engine) and he has taken the same colleague home. He boasted how he could easily take two to three minutes off my time.

    I will never be a hero, well except in the bedroom, and even then my days of coming off the wardrobe in a cape are behind me. Ever the more so, as middle-aged spread makes me as aerodynamic as a brick!

    I said it to them, “I will never be a hero, but I do know common sense. I agree there have been significant advances with cars, but humans are just as fragile as they were at the start of the age of the car. I may never save a life, but the way I drive could mean; I will never take a life.

    I have a better chance of stopping should a child run out in front of me. Heaven forbid I should run a child over; they would have a greater chance of survival with a low-speed impact. Just for your information by the way I am gay too, proud of it and my driving.”

    Perhaps I have got past the dick measuring stage and penis/car substitution, after all at my time of life its size has as much to do with the weather as any other stimulus!

  • Journey to Fatherhood 9 | Finally a father

    “Under pressure” – that’s how I feel right now.

    What's it like to be a gay dad through surrogacy,
    Finally a father

    The shock and amazement at the birth of my daughter has been replaced by the daily pressure that surrogacy debts, my daughter, my extended family and now my new bf bring to bear. On the face of it, my prospects have never been better and I’ve never been happier until someone brings one of these pressures to bear.

    My daughter was born at the start of December 2017. In my last piece I was worried about hospital bills that hadn’t been (in my view) prepared for, the filming that had caused such a rift with my parents, how I would cope, would my daughter cry continuously, would I get any sleep, and would I be a good father? Thankfully, I spent six weeks attending the NCT course and I am pleased to say that it gave me confidence. (Sadly, I didn’t tell my parents I was going, as they kept on insisting that I go on the course, so I did, but didn’t tell them – a small act of rebellion…)

    The first meeting of the NCT course was a bit terrifying as we were all asked to explain who we were and our situation. I was (understandably) the only single male in a room of male/female couples. But one of my friends had said, ‘tell them everything at once, they will take so long to process it, there will be no time to be nasty’, and he was right. ‘Hi, I’m a single gay man, going through surrogacy in the United States of America, my daughter is due to be born in seven weeks and I will fly out in six weeks time’ and then onto the next couple. I feel warmth towards those on the course with me now. The mothers to be, were all highly protective and this included me and my situation, for which I am very grateful. So, I highly recommend an NCT course if you are expecting a baby.

    On the course we went through birth, labour, what happens, feeding, crying, changing nappies, looking after our own mental health, and settling into a routine. Most importantly it gave me the confidence to accept that I wasn’t going to be the perfect dad, but that I could be the best dad that I am capable of being. It taught me that you can’t make a baby stop crying, start feeding or to go to sleep. It also taught me that provided my daughter had had her nappy changed, was fed, burped and cuddled, then unless she had a temperature and extreme crying, she is good and well and she could happily carry on crying. -My daughter developed this ‘low level’ crying, which I knew meant that everything was okay. I think for the first few weeks she had this low-level crying expressing shock at no longer being in the womb of her tummy mummy.

    I also changed my mind about the filming. I spoke to the film team a couple of times and on the continuing basis of ‘you can tell us not to air this at any time’, we continued to film. I flew out at the end of November and essentially from then through my daughter’s birth, until the day my parents arrived, the film crew filmed everything. We had a fantastic time: BBQ ribs with my surrogate and her family, shopping in Wal-Mart, cruising in a Ford Focus on the Las Vegas strip (!), to dinner at home and going to the doctor and paediatrician consultations. I really got to know the team and I know that they will produce something sympathetic, in-depth and caring, for airing this autumn. I’m really pleased about it.

    Reality struck with my daughter’s birth, apparently (the film crew said) I was a picture of complete shock. I watched my surrogate give birth up close and, thankfully, there were no complications. A painkiller given to injured Marines and an epidural were ‘all’ that was needed and 20 hours after entering the hospital my daughter was born. We did delayed cord clamping, skin-to-skin, gently talking and giving lots of love and attention for my daughter, as she was passed around all present. She was then weighed, washed (“she loves the water, doesn’t she”), measured, reactions checked, and dressed in a tiny nappy and hospital issued baby grow. We were then separated (this was discussed and agreed in advance) from my surrogate and placed in individual close by post-partum rooms.

    I just went with the flow. I didn’t have work to go to, I didn’t have to sleep or have any commitments. The only thing I had to do, was to concentrate on was my daughter. So from that day until I returned to work, it was all about my daughter. I had the light on, in the room we were in at the hospital and at home till I re-started work. So I got used to sleeping with a light on. To begin with, it was: change nappy, feed, burp (after every ounce) and then back to sleep every two hours. Then when my parents arrived, I’d hand my daughter over to them at about 8 am to sleep for two to three hours myself. My parents were anxious but got back into being baby carers quickly. And, this is where my relationship with my parents started to change again…

    My mother had always wanted a daughter and although I am my daughter’s father, there was, has been and continues to be “you must do this”. As I agreed to live under their roof for four months following the birth, it has been what they want most of the time or; we have an argument, my mother cries and eventually concedes. It’s been great having their support, so much so that I am allowed to date someone and go out with him once a week. But, it’s also claustrophobic and in line with my parent’s expectations about how a daughter should be brought up and their needs. So I continue to just go with the flow. I will now be moving out in six week’s time. I am counting the days…

    And this brings me back to pressure. I have a loan, credit card debt in the UK and the States and a further loan from my father. My job pays well, but it’s tight. Also, my father essentially demanded repayment once we had returned to the UK. Unlike a credit card company who e-mails, texts or posts letters to you, dad is there when I get home or at the weekend. Thankfully I’ve reached an arrangement after a heated conversation, but ironically it’s my father, not the bank that is crippling me financially. So, that’s two types of pressure that I am literally living with currently.

    Add to this: pressure at work, which we all experience, to deliver results; and paying attention to, and being a good bf; and strangely, the pressure that my daughter adds is minimal. At three months she has stopped her low-level crying, she smiles and is engaging, she has started to make sounds with her mouth and she sleeps (hallelujah!) from about 10:30 pm to around 6:30 am / 7 am each night. Every fifth or sixth night she will wake at 3 am or 4 am to keep me on my toes, but otherwise, she is (mostly) a real joy to be around. What she really is, is intoxicating. I could and do spend hours cooing, chatting, bouncing and talking to her. So my favourite TV programmes come and go, my PC and tablet computer games barely get a look in, and apart from the pressures, all is going well.

  • COMMENT | Am I suffering Gay Paranoia? Is it me or my sexuality?

    COMMENT | Am I suffering Gay Paranoia? Is it me or my sexuality?

    “LGBT people have to work harder to be listened to, have to work harder to get anything done and that is a sad fact of life as it stands”

    An old Stonewall campaign (C) STONEWALL

    I have not been the greatest member of the LGBT community.

    When I was in my teens and early 20s, I was privileged to be in very liberal environments. I went to a high school where I was the only out gay person and my degree was in the creative field. I was surrounded by like-minded and open-minded people. This led me to believe that talks of microaggressions and homophobia were exaggerated. I even wrote articles against allowing gay marriage in churches, questioning Pride parades and deriding camp men. I look back on that time with great regret and shame as, now I am older, I have actually studied LGBT history. I understand the plight of LGBT people around the World. And, on an increasing scale, I have myself felt the effects of subtle homophobia and microaggressions.

    It is difficult sometimes to try and decipher if how you are being treated is because of how you are acting or because of who you are. I often wonder if becoming more “woke” has made me hyper-alert, like I am deliberately seeking it out. I have experienced frequently in my work life, moments where I have felt dismissed. I have been told I am “emotional”, told to stop being “a diva” or called “sensitive”. Yet, I have seen straight male colleagues be treated completely different. I have never once seen two straight male colleagues have a heated debate and either of them be called “emotional” or a “diva”. I remember having a heated discussion with a senior manager at one company I worked at and I was providing him with perfectly logical information. He was having none of it, kept telling me I needed to “chill” and stop being so “sensitive”. I eventually phoned a colleague and explained what had gone on and then, when he arrived back to the office, I stood and watched him explain the exact same points to the senior manager that I had raised, who then wholeheartedly agreed and went ahead as I had advised!

    But here lies the problem; is it my approach or my sexuality? Nobody I’ve ever worked with in my entire work life has ever outwardly expressed homophobia. I have never been made to feel uncomfortable or unsafe. Yet, I have frequently found myself turned down for promotion, talked down to, dismissed and patronised. I am a very passionate person and, when I care about an issue, I express that strongly but I have seen other straight colleagues behave in a similar manner and they don’t receive the admonishment I do. I remember once having a conversation with a friend who said they felt LGBT people have a ‘chip on their shoulder’. It was a point, many years ago, I would’ve agreed with but now I completely disagree. You just need to look at what is happening in the world. Gay men are still beat up and abused regularly in the UK.

    In 2016/2017 there was a 27% increase in reported hate crimes based on sexuality from the previous year. That’s just what gets reported. I have had friends experience situations such as not being allowed in a bar because he was “too gay” or be yelled at when they held hands with their boyfriends. These situations are still very real. You have the President of the United States banning transgender people from serving in the Army. You have gay men in Chechnya being rounded up to be tortured and murdered. You even have people like Jacob Rees-Mogg being glorified on Twitter and lauded as a next potential leader because of how “quirky” he is when, in truth, he doesn’t believe in gay marriage. Is it any surprise we’re so vigilant? It is important to learn from the mistakes of the past to ensure that history is not repeated.

    I will never truly know if how I am treated is because of my approach or my sexuality. It is something I refer to as “gay paranoia”. The problem here is that I even have to wonder. It is 2018 and I have to actively be aware of microaggressions or potentially dangerous situations. LGBT people have to work harder to be listened to, have to work harder to get anything done and that is a sad fact of life as it stands. But how can we change that? The way I see it is that we must try and stand up to homophobia, we must celebrate our Pride and more importantly, we must vote and encourage our friends to vote. We must support pro-LGBT candidates in local and general elections.

    My dream is that the future generation never has to worry that they won’t even have a chance and that their ideas and ideals will be judged on merit and on nothing else. But right now, I am going to just keep learning and keep hoping. I am also going to do my best to check my own privilege especially in comparison to other LGBT people, particularly Trans and BME LGB people, and just hope to see change in my lifetime.

    I am inspired by LGBT youth and LGBT activists of today who heroically stand up for what is right. Yes, I have been a poor advocate in the past but I plan on making up for it for the rest of my life.

  • COMMENT | Another Facebook alarm bell

    I confess I am one of the people who sometimes take tests on Facebook. So what is all of the fuss about?

    We need to be paying more attention to who can create and use Facebook accounts.

    Pretty sure that whenever me and my single brain cell have decided to partake in these online analysis of personality and many other brain-teasing trait-identifying, pigeonholing non-entities tests there is a stage at the end to post your results.

    This part of the process includes a disclaimer stating the originating program owner will get access to your personal data and friends list; if you proceed to post your results. I don’t. I take the tests out of my own curiosity with no intention of sharing so never give access to that sort of information.

    Perhaps Facebook was/is culpable of allowing a large amount of data to be shared, but ultimately it is generally the user who gives permission for the information to be shared. It’s not like it’s been stolen.

    If I was more worried about Facebook and how it is used and its foibles I would mention underage users. A couple of years ago I did a search for gay men in my area. Among the results were men who liked men and wanted to meet men. One of them was the 8-year-old son of a friend I worked with.

    Starting the day with an awkward conversation “Hey Phil, as you know I am gay. I looked for other gay men in my area on Facebook this morning. Best if I ask you to do this search too.” To say he was shocked as he scrolled down the page and found a pic of his 8-year-old would be an understatement. He didn’t know his son had a Facebook account. His son had not got to the age of being interested in girls so had checked interested in men. Ergo he came up in my search for gay men!

    If I was to scream anything from the rooftops it would be about safeguarding children. Online grooming is already a massive problem and a gargantuan organisation like Facebook was foiled by a little boy in primary school who had a natural curiosity to see what all the Facebook fuss and interest was about.

     

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | That time I lost the erection

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | That time I lost the erection

    I seem to be having a lot of flashbacks lately.

    It certainly makes me feel like I’ve had an extremely action-packed life when it comes to matters of the heart and the bedroom. My friends always tell me my antics make for wonderful dinner party stories. I’m glad I keep them and their guests entertained.

    Anyway, as per usual I’m digressing and not getting to my point. I’m taking you back to 2008. A whole decade ago. When I was mid-20s, rather than the scary mid-30s I have now reached. It was a time when The Bill was still on the box. Oh, how I love The Bill.

    Anyone who knows me will know what an ubër fan of The Bill I was and still am. Never missed an episode. And now I have the whole series in my DVD collection. And I even watch it every day now it is being repeated on the Drama channel. Maybe I shouldn’t admit to this. It may make me even more Undateable but sod it, I’m getting too old to care what people think.

    Such a fan was I, that my quote of the 90s and the 00s was, “Next time on the Bill.” I used to say it at every opportunity I got. If a friend announced a pregnancy or whatever, I’d do my mock shocked face and scream, “Next time on the Bill!” The only time I don’t think it was appreciated was when my friend’s nan had just died. Oh well, I was just trying to lighten the mood.

    So one night, almost a decade ago, we were out celebrating a friend’s birthday in Reflex. God, that takes me back. Reflex in Kingston. R.I.P. What a shame it no longer exists. Too many outer London gay venues are closing for my liking.

    So here we were in the dearly departed Reflex and this man approached me. He wasn’t exactly the prettiest grape in the bunch but my beer goggles were well and truly attached to my old pork pies by this point.

    I hadn’t had a drunken snog in ages and he supplied some lip servicing. I heard Tullene, you know her, the one I went to India with, I heard her shout: “NEXT TIME ON THE BILL” as our lips locked. I burst out laughing in the poor boy’s mouth.

    As he questioned our bizarre behaviour, which actually most people do when it comes to Tullene and I, he asked what the hell we were going on about. I enthusiastically filled him in on my love story with The Bill, at which point he whipped out his warrant card.

    Fuck a duck, he was only a real-life police officer. I was as hard as a truncheon.

    Before you could say, “Next time on the Bill”, I was back at the police officer’s house. He had suddenly become a lot more attractive. I couldn’t believe I was about to have sexual relations with a real police officer.

    I opened his wardrobe to check there was a uniform inside. All the episodes of The Bill I had watched had clearly given me a suspicious mind.

    We got on the bed and as we got our clothes off, my truncheon seemed to lose its life. It went down like a popped balloon. The first time in my whole life, I had lost my erection. The sheer embarrassment.

    To this day, I blame it on karma. Never should you be so fickle and shag a man based on their job. Please make sure you fancy them. I picked up my clothes and did a runner. NEXT TIME ON THE BILL…

  • COMMENT | Are gay people victims of heteronormativity?

    Am I a victim? Should older gay men be suing the government for psychological abuse? I am not waving the Rainbow flag whilst screaming “victim here!” It’s just a question about perspective.

    Picture this – A young straight boy is dropped into a community of gay men and lesbians; then throughout his formative and adolescent years, he only ever witnesses scenes of affection and kissing between same-sex couples. He never sees any acts of sex and doesn’t know anything about it.

    As the boy grows he feels he is different and recognises he has feelings for girls and wants to kiss and be affectionate with them, but knows this is not how the society he lives in functions.

    Would his experience be that of a victim of grooming?

    I came into a world that was profoundly and solely heterosexual or so I thought. I only ever saw kissing and cuddling between a man and a woman. It was all there was on television. Life seemed predetermined to grow up get a job a girlfriend, get married.

    The answer to the question is no. I shouldn’t be suing the government. There is no retrospective implementation of compensation for a life lost or damaged whilst waiting for acceptance from society.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | And here’s why you should never fake tan while flaccid

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | And here’s why you should never fake tan while flaccid

    This Valentine’s day I decided that I was a strong, independent gay man who needed no-one. I’d resigned myself to the fact that no cards from eligible bachelors were going to be gracing my letterbox. No flowers delivered from florists were going to be displayed on my window sill. Oh Jesus, someone get the violins out and a bottle of Prozac.

    KlausHausmann / Pixabay

    I must tell you that I did send one card though. And that was to my dear devoted mummy. The sheer embarrassment in the shop when the sales assistant asked, “ooh, who’s the lucky man?” whilst fondling the card which read I LOVE YOU. Holding up my head (and my chins), I said, “It’s for my Mum actually!” I thought I was going to throttle the bitch as she bit her lip sympathetically.

    I could see it in her eyes, the look of sheer sympathy. I could read her thoughts. The poor bachelor gay boy in his mid-thirties, whose face won’t move for botox and who’s spent more time drinking sauvignon blanc than he has been in relationships.

    Well, that’s what her face said but the words that actually left her mouth were:
    “I hope I have a son like you one day!”

    Anyway, enough of my Valentine’s card woes. Even though I’d decided I didn’t need a relationship, a man for shagging purposes might be nice. So I went to visit a dear old friend, affectionately known as an FB. I won’t explain FB in case my mum is reading. She’ll just think it stands for Facebook so let’s just leave it at that.

    Preparation for a visit to the FB is crucial. Out came my tube of Veet and the manscaping commenced. Next was a visit to the spray tan booth. I whipped off my clothes and let the rays of fake sun, otherwise known as Lauren’s way, penetrate me from head to toe. You must always have a spray tan completely naked. You can’t risk any potential white bits.

    Hair free and sun-kissed, I was ready for Mr FB. It was time to build up my strength for a night of Valentine’s passion so out came the spinach and the rocket. Just call me Popeye. I gobbled my way through the meal fit for Popeye and off I went.

    As the passion began, we ripped each other’s clothes off. I’m fearing this column is going to turn into a snippet from a Mills & Boon. But so be it, the needs of telling this tale demand it sound so.

    Now, for any man who knows me intimately, will know it doesn’t take me long before my manhood stands to full attention. A red-blooded man, Kylie would sing.

    As Mr FB went to attend to my man soldier, I saw his eyes widen.

    “What?” I screamed.
    “Have you got some sort of skin condition?” he asked.
    It was time for my eyes to widen.
    “No! I fucking don’t!” I bellowed.

    He instructed me to look at my erected soldier and as I did, my eyes widened even wider. Cor! Where I’d had the spray tan naked with a flaccid penis, it clearly hadn’t fake tanned all the skin. My erect penis had stripes!

    “Where I’d had the spray tan naked with a flaccid penis, it clearly hadn’t fake tanned all the skin. My erect penis had stripes!”

    “You’ve got a Zebra penis!” Mr FB thought it was funny. If only it was the size of a Zebras.

    To quickly move on from the sheer embarrassment of the Zebra situation, I held Mr FB down and performed fellatio. I’m using that posh word in case my mum is reading. She’ll think it’s a character from a Shakespeare play.

    As I pulled away from my act of fellatio, I noticed a bit of rocket dangling from the end of Mr FB’s manhood.

    OH GOD, PLEASE GROUND, SWALLOW ME NOW! Normally it’s me that’s doing the swallowing.

    Mr FB looked up, or I should say down actually and he noticed the rocket dangling.
    “Where did that come from?” I asked innocently.

    Perhaps I should avoid sexual encounters as well as relationships. Over and out from the Zebra/Rocket man…

  • COMMENT | Just because you can’t see disability, doesn’t mean it’s not there

    The writing is on the toilet door.

    On a recent visit to a supermarket, I was caught short and had to avail myself of their facilities. I chose what was previously known as the ‘disabled toilet’. There was a double whammy of relief as on approach there was a sign on the door which read “Not every disability is visible, Accessible Toilet.”

    Now I can walk in and leave a toilet without the guilt I previously had when people would say either under their breath or with an accusatory tone, “What’s his disability; he can walk alright?”

    These are no longer disabled toilets, which in itself is grammatically incorrect as the toilet does not have a disability as implied but its user. They are accessible toilets and show a man, woman and wheelchair user.

    I have diverticulitis, ulcerative colitis, and an enlarged prostate.

    In the past I have stood at a urinal desperate to urinate and not a drop would pass; waiting, lingering and straining to the point of arousing the suspicion of other users as to my purpose. Not a pleasant experience, humiliating, embarrassing, and making me potentially vulnerable to abuse.

    “The other conditions are unpredictable and an urgency to use the bowel can be unpleasant in a public place. This can be an uncivilised theatrical event of some duration, accompanied with my crying out in pain”

    The other conditions are unpredictable, and an urgency to use the bowel can be unpleasant in a public place. This can be an uncivilised theatrical event of some duration, accompanied with my crying out in pain, voluminous flatulent sound effects and a pebble dashing with force, not dissimilar to the noise of emptying a coal bucket into a fireplace.

    Dignity has long since been lost, and I have over the years adopted an approach of making fun of myself. In a motorway service station (and you know how busy they are) all fell silent at the sound of ‘parking my breakfast.’ I heard myself saying “You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!”, and rapturous laughter followed.

    Now I can suffer and recover some composure in privacy before re-emerging, and the handrail is bloody useful when getting back up these days, damned arthritis!