THEGAYUK

Category: Comment

  • 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.

  • We need to leave the K out of LGBT+

    COMMENT /

    LGBT is an initialism that has been in use since the late 1980s. Simply standing for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender. But in recent years, extra letters have been added to the acronym, which in my opinion is suppressing the individuality of LGBT people.

    Is the LGBT acronym starting to lose all meaning as more and more letters get tagged onto the end?

    I may be a gay man but sometimes I feel I’ve been bracketed together with other people who, although also gay, may not actually share the same issues, values or goals.

    I feel the acronym is now starting to lose all meaning as letters, which to me have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with homosexuality or trans, are being tagged onto the end.

    K, for example, the most recent letter to be added has really got my gander up. For those of you not in the know, it stands for kink. I really can’t see what kink has to do with the lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender community.

    Please correct me if I’m wrong but the last time I checked, anybody could be a bit kinky or have a kink. Old people, heterosexuals, gays, anyone. So to add K to an already far too long acronym is pushing the boundaries.

    Of course, I believe that anything to do with sexuality or gender identity should still be included in the LGBT umbrella. But others, like K, turn it into a completely different cause altogether. It’s about sexuality, not sexual fantasies.

    I understand the origins of the LGBT acronym. It was to help a minority community feel less marginalised. And to help bring the community into wider society. As a community, we have come very far forward in our rights. I’m not saying the world is perfect for the LGBT community but it’s certainly ten times better than it was fifty years ago.

    My fear is that we are detaching ourselves from the society that we have fought to become accepted in and a part of. This long-winded acronym, to an outsider, can seem pretty daunting and far too politically correct.

    For a minority group who have fought for many, many years for inclusion, I fear we are endangering ourselves of exclusion from an accepting society by pigeonholing the gay community with this acronym.

     

    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.

  • So what’s it like going on a nude beach for the first time?

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

    CREDIT: Jake Hook / THEGAYUK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Could I?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Forgetting Sade and my careful footing, I make a dash for the water. Gazzele like, I spring over the last few rocks and dive.

    Into 3 inches of water.

    My pasty ass isn’t even covered with water.

    The tourist boat continues its slow-paced chugging, its slow speed is mocking me. The cameras are still clicking. Eventually, it disappears around the cove. My boyfriend is almost drowning with laughter. The expectant eyes, attached to waspy mouths are saying something… I think I can hear “oh look, a floating pomme”.

    I die.

  • COMMENT | The problem with snowflakes they “reach for Twitter and moan incessantly about the outrage they feel”

    Quick my little snowflakes, reach for your twitter and moan incessantly about the outrage you feel. Or should that be “you think you feel” because as I seem to witness on a daily occurrence, there is a lot of young people moaning with outrage and I’m not sure why?

    geralt / Pixabay

    Wikipedia has the definition sorted for you. “Snowflake as a slang term involves the derogatory usage of the word snowflake to make reference to people. Its meaning has varied, but may include a person who has an inflated sense of their own uniqueness, has an unwarranted sense of entitlement, or is easily offended and unable to deal with opposing opinions”

    I’m not in total agreement with this however. I don’t really think it is derogatory. Obviously, this has been added by a snowflake who was outraged in the first place by what followed afterwards. Let’s look at the main reason for why l am writing this.

    via GIPHY

    I recently became incensed when I read about young people really not understanding the American sitcom Friends from 1994 to 2004 and complaining that it was transphobic, homophobic, fattist, sexist, generally insensitive, no doubt full of animal cruelty because of the song ‘smelly cat’ and Ross once kept a monkey, nudistphobic (no such word but there was a neighbour across the buildings who would walk around naked) clothistphobic etc etc. Looking back and the list could go on forever. And if they think that’s bad then I’d hate to imagine what they would make of US hit comedy The Golden Girls!

    The Twitterati took to social media to vent their outrage. Outrage that quite frankly isn’t there. You see we golden oldies enjoyed it for what it was. Six friends joking about the past, the present and the future. And that is what we have. Friends are often cruel to me for choices made in the past. I am often cruel back. Those friends are there for me in times of need. I am there for them. We laugh, we enjoy we get along and work things out. It seems the snowflakes of today can’t do that.

    You see we never had this social media thing. If we were outraged then we would write to the BBC’s Points of View show. And if we couldn’t be bothered to do that we simply let it go because we simply were not outraged enough to be outraged by trivial stuff and couldn’t be arsed to keep picking at it like a scab.

    I’m not saying people who are at my grand age of the 4th decade are not snowflakes themselves, it’s just that my generation can tell them to sit down, shut up and breathe. Or to use the write acronym STFU! Indeed only recently I told that to a good friend who got caught up in someone else’s drama and made it their own for no reason.

    It is almost like we are now conditioned to be outraged at almost everything. Humans have become more and more angry for no other reason than the fact that we are told to be. Don’t believe me? Grab a coffee at your local cafe, sit outside and take a look at those going past you. I guarantee you that most of them are looking for the next thing to be outraged about. So outraged they vent it on social media and let their followers of varying numbers be aware that they are outraged hoping that it then escalates to others feeling the same. There isn’t much I see about people being happy on social media.

    It seems we are not allowed to be happy these days. And this is where the conditioning comes in. The press has made you angry and outraged. Soap operas that we watch or listen to (I am an avid fan of Radio 4’s The Archers are full of outrage.

    It’s rare to find a storyline that is a happy one.

    There is lots of talk about square eyes and all of us looking at screens. These screens are full of information. Information literally at your finger-tips. You can access this all at the same time as drinking your morning coffee and taking a poo at the same time. It’s always around us.

    I now make a point of leaving my phone outside the toilet. The risk of dropping it has come close several times. I don’t want information when I am dropping off last night’s dinner. For me, toilet time is a time to reflect. It’s a skill that has been forgotten. It’s my “me time”. It’s a time for to cut the crap from my body and let me think.

    Don’t get me wrong, there is plenty to be outraged about like the recent shooting in an America school. That is a real problem. It’s just that the young generation, of which I do not envy one bit, don’t really have anything to moan about or at least shouldn’t be moaning but instead be living and enjoying the moment because before you know it, you’ll have real things to moan about.

    I am only scratching the surface of this current crisis the snowflake suffers on an hourly basis. I don’t actually think I have answered the question I was set by my editor. There is a whole book on the subject and I am sure someone is writing it now. So I’ll sign off with the words of Michael Palin from Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life “Try to be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in and try to live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations.”

     

    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.

  • Sydney’s Mardi Gras: colourful pride born from a night of violence<

    Forty years ago a group of gay and lesbian activists took to the Sydney streets for a night of celebration following a day of political protest, but police intervened, brutally beating dozens of partygoers. (more…)

  • 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!

  • OPINION | The “mother” of all questions, who is Tom Daley’s baby’s surrogate mother?

    It’s none of your god-damn business.

    On Valentine’s Day, Tom Daley and husband, Dustin Lance Black announced to the world that they were expecting a baby. The announcement from Dustin (on Instagram – how modern) simply said, “happy valentines, from ours to yours” and included an ultrasound picture of their child.

    It wasn’t long before questions about the child’s mother were being raised, both on social and mainstream media. LBC Radio Tweeted a question on whether it was sinister, while one of its presenters Shelagh Fogarty wrote, “No mention of the womb and the woman or women making this possible. Nice.”

    LBC ended up apologising for the tone of its question and deleting the Tweet.

    Katie Hopkins suggested that the baby was “bought” to fix their marriage…

    Even Richard Littlejohn, Daily Mail columnist whined, “We are not told her identity, where she lives, or even when the baby is due. She is merely the anonymous incubator.

    What an incredibly creepy line of questioning Rich.

    You know what Shelagh, Richard, Katie et al., it’s none of your business who the mother is or indeed whose sperm is used. And you know, it’s not that confusing. There are millions of children in the world without a mother, a father or either, but are raised in a variety of ways. As long as there is love, food, protection, warmth and education children will survive and grow up to be productive members of society.

    Don’t let facts get in the way…

    The simple truth is that we don’t know the facts. You don’t even know the first thing about their relationship. Only what they choose to share.

    Let’s pause for a moment and think about the invasive questions or assumptions being made, especially because these two parents happen to be male. With an opposite-sex couple would you ever dream of asking the parents to be, the intimate conception details – like: Did you use a sperm donor? Did you use IVF? How long did you try?

    Those questions are answers to be offered at the parents’ own will, not questions you have the right to ask.

    You have to ask yourself why on earth do you want to know. How is it going to affect your life? I’d wager… not a dot.

    For all we know, the mother didn’t want to be acknowledged. Maybe she wanted anonymity.

    For all we know, Tom and Dustin aren’t using a surrogate. It could be that they adopted an yet unborn child.

    Stop making your assumptions and just get on with your life.

    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.

  • OPINION | It may not be an obligation to learn LGBT history, but you really should

    OPINION | It may not be an obligation to learn LGBT history, but you really should

    Next year sees the 50th anniversary of The Stonewall Riots, which I’ve written about before here, yet still, there are some people out there who feel that the younger generation doesn’t need to care about the violent history of struggling for gay rights because they are too busy having a good time.

    “What they fail to understand is that they can have that “good time” because of countless LGBT+ men and women who have lived through hell and to this day still fight to protect the rights of the community.”

    Having a fluff piece opinion that completely misses the point of what Pride stands for is utterly disgraceful. And it saddens me that people who are only a few years younger than me have absolutely no clue about why that is. I have a huge amount of respect for the generations that gave me the rights I have today, and I also understand exactly why they would get angry at a group of gays who don’t show that level of respect or a willingness to learn about their own community’s history.

    They aren’t asking anyone to know every tiny little detail about gay history, but a basic knowledge of the big events certainly wouldn’t go amiss. Just to afford these brave men and women from all walks of life an iota of dignity and a thank you. An unsettling thing that I have been witness to, is when an older generation LGBT+ person is in a bar or club, and the younger gays either laugh at them, ignore them or worse, insult them and say they shouldn’t be there and even call them gross. We’re not asking you to hook up with them, we’re asking you to acknowledge them.

    Embed from Getty Images

    You don’t even need to make a song and dance about it, just be willing to talk to them if they talk to you. You never know, you could make a new friend. One has to remember that it was only in 1967 that homosexual acts were decriminalised in the UK. There are people alive today that lived through the fear that they could be arrested, simply for being who they are and to see younger people completely ignore that fact because they are too busy having fun must really hurt them.

    Men and women in the UK were some of the earliest to form well organised groups such as the Homosexual Law Reform Society, (founded in 1958) which surprisingly was started by many non-homosexual members, such as Sir Stephen Spender and MP Kenneth Younger and the Campaign for Homosexual Equality, an offshoot of the HLRS founded in Manchester in 1964 by more prominently homosexual people like Allan Horsfall and Colin Harvey. It was a direct result of these groups that the 1967 Sexual Offences Act was passed in the UK.

    I don’t pretend to fully understand what it was like because I didn’t live through it, but I have empathy for anyone that did and I’m always willing to be told something new. It helps me grow as a person. And you can be damn sure that next year I will be finding any events that honour and remember the events and people of Stonewall, and I’ll be there waving my rainbow flag with pride and with respect.

    “I’m not for one second saying we shouldn’t have fun, of course, we should.

    Enjoy life, go to the clubs, wear a pair of heels and a dress, sing bad karaoke, have a regrettable hookup at a Pride event, but please stop and think about why these things can be done, and learn from the past.”

    But I digress, why has this irked me so much? It seems like the social media generation has this shocking sense of entitlement, everything is very much “Me, Me, Me and Kylie Jenner” There’s such a disconnect from people, that real and horrifying events are forgotten because they weren’t a Twitter moment. But this stuff happened, and it’s time that they understood who people like Marsha P Johnson, Gilbert Baker and anyone else from that era are.

    I’m not here to belittle the people who subscribe to the social media way of thinking, it is kinda the way of the world now, but I feel that having such a selfish attitude, not only hurts them, it hurts a whole community. Now I’m not for one second saying we shouldn’t have fun, of course, we should. Enjoy life, go to the clubs, wear a pair of heels and a dress, sing bad karaoke, have a regrettable hookup at a Pride event, but please stop and think about why these things can be done, and learn from the past. There’s already this underlying feeling of separation within the community if we don’t look or act a certain way.

    We are ALL a part of this beautiful Rainbow Community, let’s treat everyone who is a part of it, or who is an ally, as a friend and learn from each other’s experiences. It’s not a crime to not know something, but it’s a wise choice to educate oneself by talking, being open and learning. It could be something that really opens your eyes to a world that you didn’t know about.

    Seek out the people who can enrich you, learn their story and tell them yours.

    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.

  • OPINION | Celebrity Big Brother: I feel I’ve been watching a long-running pro-Tory commercial

    Big Brainwashing. Why does Big Brother want us to love dangerous Ann Widdecombe?

    Yes, I admit it: I’ve been watching Celebrity Big Brother for the first time in years. Hearing it was the Year of the Women I was intrigued. Hearing that there were, to be frank, political discussions hooked me. Little did I know what was in store.

    Well, about that whole Year of the Women debacle I can be short: they never meant it did they? If they did the selection would have been better. (Almost) all of the women selected were lovely and admirable in their own way, but were they the perfect choice to represent the whole of womanhood?

    Not according to the audience who voted three out in the first week and another three in last Tuesday’s eviction. But even ignoring that: the year of the women basically ended when the men entered the house … or even before that: the moment Ann Widdecombe entered and opened her mouth.

    The reason why she was ever asked to represent in “The Year of the Women” is questionable, as she has always made it blatantly clear she is no supporter of the female sex.

    She even admittedly left the Anglican Church to become a Catholic because she did not like their decision to accept women vicars.

    On her first night in she revealed she was basically against fighting for female rights or equal payment and victim blamed rape victims.

    She then upset trans contestant India by misgendering her, even though she was corrected several times by both India and other housemates.
 She later also branded Prince Harry’s fiancee Meghan Markle “trouble”, saying the actress’s background and attitude made her “uneasy”.

    Which for other contestants should have been enough to be voted out first, if you think about it. But not this time. No-one seemed to even bat an eyelid, and the media reported it as if the comments came from a funny old aunty, not a former Tory politician and media personality who still has quite a lot of influence: she still writes books and columns and is often wheeled out to defend unpopular Tory policies.

 Then Courtney Act (or Shane Jenek) entered the house, and things got even worse: the Ru Paul’s Drag Race contestant was met with eye roles and disapproving looks from the start. Every conversation about gay rights or feminism was met with contrary statements tuts or more eye roles. Even when the other girls talked about things that had upset them or made them uneasy she refused to show any empathy.

    Things got even worse once Courtney struck up a firm flirty friendship with Andrew Brady. This friendship with Brady was labelled “disgusting” by Ann, and their funny play fights were what made her choose the pair as the ones to be up for eviction. She thought their actions were sexual claimed they had “brought the whole house into disrepute” and then upset Brady by suggesting his mother and grandmother would be upset by it.

    Strangely it was not Ann who was edited as the bad guy in this, but according to the media, it was Andrew for being so upset he called her the c-word. Sure, not the nicest thing to call someone, but when pushed past the breaking point in a place like that tempers run high. The fact that a lot of housemates had admitted to feeling restricted by Ann’s constant judging, her eye-rolls and facepalming seems forgotten or ignored – even by most housemates themselves.

    This was not the first time Big Brother and the media twisted events to let Ann get off scot-free. Year of the ‘bad editing’ and year of the ‘feeble excuses’ would have been a better label. Or … year of protecting the sexism and homophobia apologist … Because frankly, that is what I feel I have been watching.
 Actually, I don’t know WHAT I’ve been watching beyond a long-running pro-Tory commercial. 

Several housemates have claimed that Ann seems to get a favourable treatment where edits are concerned. (The edit CBB chose to make of a conversation Andrew and Shane had during a very late night ‘Live from the house’ broadcast compared to what was shown on the official CBB show seems to support this.)

    Also, the way the show went out of their way to create another non-existent homophobic row to deflect from Ann was a clear indication of how protective they are of their ‘star’; John Barnes was edited to look homophobic in a conversation with Courtney.

    Even though the poor man, who had very intellectual LGBT rights conversations on the show, was obviously talking about what older straight men usually think about gay men. The media did pick up on this in a big way, even though Courtney expressed on camera what a great conversation she had with John.

    Meanwhile, more and more people in and around the house became “protective of Ann”; she was so entertaining and funny. She was harmless; it was pantomime, she was close with bisexual Amanda Barrie; it was all a joke.

 A strange long-running joke then. A joke who wrote a column to support conversion therapy.
 A joke who voted against: Gay adoption, Equalising the age of consent, Repealing Section 28, Civil partnerships, Equality Act, Making it easier for lesbian couples to access IVF.

    She is also against abortion and once agreed with the view that even in case of women who get pregnant because of rape, a life is still a life.

    She calls herself “a defender of the unborn”.

    In the recent past, she even supported capital punishment and a move to shackle pregnant prisoners in hospital.

 Looking up the housemates online before going in Courtney might well be surprised by the views of Ann and had every right to ask her about it.

    When she was a member of the House of Commons, she was a representative of us, the people so she should be willing to debate and admit what she did and why. There is no need to protect her from this; she chooses to appear on reality TV time and time again.

    She chose to go in this house, knowing that there would be debate and made herself a target by goading people like Courtney and Andrew by constantly eye rolling everything they did. She clearly revels in upsetting and placing small ticking bombs that she keeps kicking until they explode, but when they do she blames the injured party for being ‘too sensitive’ and then shuts down, expecting her protectors to finish the job. A neat political trick.

    It is remarkable that a person like this is hailed as a “loveable granny” in edits. For most of the time, this series was the “Ann” show, where housemates seemed to always chat about how “funny” and “adorable” she was. Sometimes this continued on into the Bit On The Side studio, where after a while people even forgot to add the, “I don’t agree with her views”, disclaimer that they’d added at the start.
 There is the strange feeling of it being ‘the year of the conservative’ where the housemates and audience alike are sucked into her views and being to repeat them.

    Quietly, Ann trained everyone in the house to look at her for approval… once she achieved that, she made the correlation that she was like Mum or Grandmum. She gave rewards and punishments. Then gradually escalated the levels of what they weren’t allowed to do, thus shutting out everyone who had anything bad to say about her. To disrespect/disagree with Ann would be like doing that to your own loved ones and made the person questioning the rules seem wrong and vindictive. And if you do a Twitter search it seems as if it’s working. Ann is hailed for her views and convictions by a good many people.

    The main excuse Ann apologists seem to use is ‘she’s old, and people were like that back then.’

    Excuse me? Were they really?

    Pardon me, but Ann Widdecombe is 70, not 101, She is not from the pre-war or Victorian age. She is my mum’s age; a woman who fought for equality for women, race and LGBT. If she heard someone like Ann back then, she’d clipped her around the head.
 Ann Widdecombe grew up in the ‘Swinging 60s’, she is younger than Mick Jagger and most of the Rolling Stones, younger than the remaining Beatles. She is as old as Marianne Faithfull – who was raised a convent girl but became a poster girl for bisexual liberation.

    These were the decades of protesting, feminism and sexual liberation – she might not have been part of it, but she can’t pretend she never heard of it. She certainly can’t brainwash people into believing that her attitude was the norm back then amongst her peers.

    The worst thing is seeing other LGBT members make those excuses for her, sucked in by the “funny old lady” act. No Amanda, Wayne, Rylan, Biggins, Russell Grant – this was not the norm back then. Shame especially those who are her age: why shame your whole generation?
 People like Elizabeth Taylor, Joanna Lumley, Barbra Streisand and most of the cast of Grace and Frankie are her peers as is Barbra Windsor.

    All these people believed and still believe in gay rights and general equality, even the nuns in the original Call the Midwife books were more open-minded than she is.

    What the heck Amanda especially; how difficult is it to understand that gay people did not have the right to marry in the very recent past and that this was because of people like Ann who voted against that. Be friends with her if you must, but don’t say that she and her opinions had nothing to do with your rights! Even on the show Widdecombe still insisted: “Marriage is between a man and a woman.”

    She uses her status to create her own little pantomime in which she is the star, knowing that this will continue to give her a stage to present her dangerous opinions… It’s a trick card Donald Trump played as well during the elections.

    It has nothing to do with how ‘things were back then’, as this was clearly not the case amongst her age group; it has to do with a narrow-minded woman who enjoys being the villain when it suits her, knowing it keeps her in the media. She uses her status to create her own little pantomime in which she is the star, knowing that this will continue to give her a stage to present her dangerous opinions. It even seems to make her popular with every generation. It’s a trick card Donald Trump played as well during the elections.

    Like Trump, Ann too showed she is still vindictive, placing Maggie Oliver up for eviction because of past political clashes. Maggie – who everyone expected to go far was barely seen during her time on the show. “I was talking about police, zero hour contracts, poverty and homelessness and those conversations haven’t been showed,”

    She came out of the house saying Ann had ‘no compassion for the homeless or poor’ and is a ‘misogynist’.

    “I don’t hate Ann,” she said. “She’s a powerful woman, and I believe that she is a misogynist.
 She’s playing a very clever game. She is very intelligent, but emotionally she is not. 
My views on politicians are widely reported, and Ann has proved every comment and stereotype that I have made about people in positions of authority. 
I don’t believe [her lack of empathy] is her fault, she has lived a privileged life.

    Emotionally she has never evolved. Politically she is very smart, but she has lived in a world of men. She has shown that in the fact she is quite vocal on her views about women.”

    In a way, this is bigger than Big Brother as this is a small window into the state of the world right now. It reveals how easily people give up their own opinions and freedom and how much intolerance towards those that fight for equality there still is.

    The catchphrase of this year’s Big Brother is “respect your elders”. Of course, you have to have respect for those that came before you; so many people fought for your right to exist and a lot of the freedoms we have now. But when someone is disrespectful or hurtful to you – judging you before they have even met you. You are allowed to voice your opinion. No-one is allowed to belittle or hurt anyone, no matter who they are and what their age is.

     

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