Last week I experienced something horrific: shopping on Oxford Street.
I avoid clothes shopping until my wardrobe is decimated. I wait until I’m down to a few pairs of socks and my underwear is looking like the type of thing your parents warned you not to wear in case of being run over before I venture out to rectify the situation. I try to ignore the dwindling collection of shirts and trousers that have been ravaged by over washing, deodorant marks and time until I can do it no more.
Last week was the turning point and I had to face the ugly truth: I needed to go clothes shopping. It was my bi-annual clothes procurement mission and I gritted my teeth, revved myself up on caffeine and went for it.
Maybe Oxford Street on a Sunday wasn’t the best choice for a pathological shopping hater but needs must. I needed new basic items and chain stores are the place to go. I just needed to suck up a whole world of pain.
I won’t go into all the messy details. I won’t describe the moment (fifteen minutes in) when my partner offered to go home and leave, as he couldn’t take my mood any more. I won’t describe the inner demon that emerged and the childish tantrums, rages and traumas (for everyone else, not me). I’ll just tell you why it was so bloody awful.
1) Un-priced garments:
It’s a shop. You sell things. If there’s no price on it then you can keep it. I’m not asking around or waiting for some glassy eyed teenager to go and check. I’ve got a life to live. I also hate that concealed price/size thing. A whole stack of shirts, neatly folded, with every one having a tag tucked discretely away so that you have to wade through each one and extricate the size label only to find after 10 minutes that they only have extra small and XXL. Strangely a lot of shops seem to cater solely for the very burly or the painfully thin.
2) Changing rooms:
Bright lights and mirrors at all angles are not something most of us need. I know I’ve got a bald spot. I know that years of smoking have ravaged my skin. I really don’t want this hammering home in an overheated cupboard as I puff and pant and try to ram myself into the sizes I wore 20 years ago.
3) Vacant automaton shop assistants:
Working in retail is tough, I’m sure, especially with people like me about. Being British, I kind of expect you to show that to me though. I don’t mind surly, truculent and disinterested. What displeases me is the false, robotic eagerness to please. It’s terrifying and disingenuous. I don’t trust the fakery, especially when it’s clearly being delivered through a world of pain and has been taught by a smiley man called Bob on an away day in Milton Keynes.
4) Other shoppers:
Faster, quicker and out of my way. They’re the only words I need to say. Unfortunately, shouting them out loud only gets you into trouble so I keep them in and just get angrier and my ulcer grows deeper by the moment. People also seem to be having a good time, lingering over the whole experience, which of course, makes me even angrier.
5) It’s illegal to carry a Taser:
I don’t need to explain that one
The ordeal is over. I have clothes. Project forward in time to six months down the line: that’ll be my next foray into the world of retail. I’d mark it in your diary and avoid the day.
I’m going to jump right into this one, partly because I have a word-count to stick to, but also because it’s a pretty important point that I need to discuss with you this time. One of the best parts of having a big gay time machine to contact my younger self through is knowing that I can potentially stop you from making some big mistakes. One way you’re going to make mistakes in the near future is through the fabulous world of mobile dating apps, so listen up, kiddo – it’s about to get real.
Firstly, even at the age of 25 I’m still somehow
the naive gay who sees them as Dating Apps – maybe it’s all the musicals, or Julia Roberts movies I’ve seen, that have convinced me love comes first and always wins in the end. However, here’s the truth, a lot of -and perhaps most – guys don’t view or use these apps in this way. For a lot of guys these apps are more about hooking up than they are about dating, and they’re more about sex than they are about love. This will cause some confusion, and a fair bit of wasted time, in conversations you have with guys you envisage as possible suiters. Yes, there will be those guys who are upfront about it from the get go; they’ll ask for pics, or they’ll send pics, or you’ll be greeted with the stunningly eloquent opening question that is, “top or bttm?” You’ll get used to these guys, and you will even get used to explaining that you’re after a little more than they are. It’s the others that really breed confusion – the ones who talk like they want more, staying full Dr Jeckyll until the night hits and Mr Hyde emerges. Let’s cut to the chase, don’t fall for these guys.
Secondly, remember to always put safety first. Of course, this comes into play just as much in the bedroom as it does on the apps, but I’m referring to the latter now. Avoid being too open and vulnerable on these Apps, maybe even to the extent of not showing your face in your profile picture – it will definitely help to avoid unplanned chance meetings, after all. Other than that it’s all the usual points, no addresses, of course no banking information, and no deep dark confessions to that faceless torso with glistening abs.
When it gets to the real world part, which it will on more than a few occasions, listen to what your parents have always told you. Strangers = Dangers. Meet in a public, well lit place – and make sure there are people who know your exact plans, that you keep them updated on all the while, of course. There are going to be couple times you don’t follow these rules and you’re pretty lucky nothing bad actually happens, but just FYI they’re super awkward encounters and not worth all of the risk and worry at all.
Finally, don’t fall for anyone before actually meeting them – this even goes for the good ones you might find. You’re going to do it, and you’re going to feel stupid. At the end of the day dating apps are like Facebook or any other kind of social media, people show what they want you to see, and hide what they don’t. You can’t fall for a concept of a man.
Yours sincerely,
Twenty-Five Year Old (Somewhat Regretful) You
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.
Now, I’m not one to rain on anyone’s parade and I’m the first to shout out a resounding YES to the fact that we have marriage equality. I’m stunned that I’ve seen so many changes in societal attitudes since my teenage years 20 plus years ago. I’m all for liberty, equality and freedom of expression. Except when it comes to bad taste.
There’s just one issue in this whole thing. I may now get more wedding invites and I bloody hate weddings. I dodge, feign illness and fake deaths (including my own): just to avoid these often-horrible things. They’re just not my thing at all. One sniff of a fat uncle dancing with a small child to ‘Come on Eileen’ or the oily drip of a 99% oil chocolate fountain and I’m running for cover.
Here’s my top five wedding don’ts for those planning to tie the knot:
1) Eskimo/Native American/Self-penned love poems.
OK. We get it. We know you’re quite fond of each other but we do not want to regurgitate our lunch. If you need to recite little poems to each other then there’s a time and a place…maybe just before you are both put to death by lethal injection for mawkish bad taste? Is that a crime punishable by death? I hope so.
2) Bizarre Outfits.
OK, so your mother’s cousin’s milkman’s best friend was Scottish or at least he once shared a lift with someone from Perth, but this is no reason to wear a kilt, especially if you haven’t got good knees. Cummerbunds, tuxedos, matching suits, pastel shades: they’re fine as an ironic statement but not to have in photographs that we’re quite frankly all going to be wincing at before we’ve even recovered from our hangovers.
3) The Chocolate Fountain
Unless this is a euphemism for some nefarious sexual practice that you and your guests will all enjoy then no. Just no. OK? It’s dirty, unhygienic and just plain oily.
4) Wedding lists.
Save up for it like the rest of us. The world doesn’t owe you a living. Have you not heard of payday lending and credit cards or just getting a job? Maybe you could sell a kidney or take to the streets with a bowl? It’s a more honest form of begging. I recently went to a wedding where the list contains items such as wide screen TVs, washing machines and a shed. I kid you not.
5) Bankrupt your guests.
OK, You’re getting married. That’s lovely. We’d love to come. Oh, the wedding is in Lapland? We have to attend a weeklong stag do in Borneo? We need a minimum £50 gift spend, not to mention the new outfits and the stint in rehab after that stag do? That’s fine. We’ll shelve those plans to move out of our hovel/ever own a home/ have a decent holiday. It’s not like the divorce stats are 50/50 is it? We’ll play along and don’t worry about that new hip we were planning on buying.
Apart from all that. Have a great day, whatever your wedding.
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.
There are things you remember from your childhood. Some help makes you who you are while others still bemuse you some 30 plus years later.
I’m referring to films our parents made us watch. At a young age and very much below the recommended age of 15, my father sat me down to watch Quadrophenia 1979.
I understood some of it, didn’t really think twice about the sex scene between Phil Daniels and Leslie Ash in an alleyway. I did, however, question why the film ended as it did in what I thought was suicide with the moped going over the edge of Beachy Head with nobody on it.
And then there was that film that subjected me to gay culture. No, I am not talking about Dorothy and her woodland cruising chums, I am talking about the 1969 film called The Italian Job. The film with the ultimate cliffhanger.
Forget all that crap about Colin and Barry in Eastenders sharing a kiss or Brookside‘s first lesbian kiss for that matter. That was in the 80s. The Italian Job was a rich celluloid dream of gayness and camp with a car chase at the end. And all just two years after homosexuality had been legalised.
In my eyes, Michael Caine is a love. He has been in some dreadful films that I class as camp classics such as The Swarm 1978 and The Hand 1981. Michael Caine, however, is a gent and it was his portrayal as Charlie Croker that made me take note. He was a man at ease with his sexuality and with others around him. In the film’s first 15 minutes or so you knew about his sexuality as Lorna laid on a spread of woman like a running buffet for him to plough through.
Throughout the film he rubbed shoulders with all kinds of those queer sorts your grandmother would warn you about. Come with me as we take a look.
You can’t forget Camp Freddie. The pastel pink suited crook in his frilly shirts and a notion for filing his nails. Freddie was also full of marvellous one-liners delivered as only a queen could do so.
And who was Freddie’s boss? Mr Bridger played by Noël Coward. Coward is acting royalty in itself. A crook behind bars still pulling the strings and stealing every scene he was in. I often mumble the line “Last night Mr governor somebody broke (rolling the R’s) into my toilet” and then went on to moan about how his motions that evening had been ruined. Again rolling the R’s.
Mr Bridger also had a liking for her Majesty the Queen. Having her pictures all over the cell walls like a teenager has Beatles posters. Speaking of queens, Simon Dee’s one of only two appearances in a film can’t go unnoticed. Unlike the previous two actors mentioned, Dee himself is straight. His conviction as tailor Adrian was above and beyond brilliant that you questioned if he was indeed gay in real life. Pursed lipped and disgusted at Croker’s shirts. His line delivery was genius.
Professor Peach played by Benny Hill is another character rich in campness. He has a childlike quality for the matron and the larger lady. The facial expressions are comical.
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Even the garage manager played by John Clive who fleeced Croker into paying an exaggerated amount of money for car parking was a little bit bent. Now be that as a dodgy crook or not, again it’s the visuals that make you think he’s a bit of a queen.
While not being that gay or overly camp, two other characters from the film stand out. Both also for their previous acting roles. Admittedly the films I have discovered them both in has been discovered many years later.
The first is Rossano Brazzi’s portrayal of Rodger Beckerman. His cameo appearance during the opening credits is iconic and memorable for many reasons. His suave sophistication oozed on screen even if it was for just moments. Ultimately it was probably somewhat overshadowed by the destruction of the Lamborghini Miura he was driving. Rossano is also remembered for his part in the musical South Pacific (1958) as Emile De Becque opposite Mitzi Gaynor. You can’t get more camp than that film.
The handsomely rugged Raf Vallone presented himself as Altabani, head of the Mafia. Being ferried around in a Fiat Dino coupe was enough for me to cheer the Mafia on.
I digress a little however he too had a grace about him as he swanned around on screen. His delivery to Caine on the Alps after they had destroyed the two Jaguars and the “pretty car” Aston was both menacing, cutting and a little camp with a nibble on the arm of his glasses. The look he gave when his mansion was plunged into darkness was cinematic gold. He is a beautiful man.
Raf Vallone is also remembered for a previous role as Eddie Carbone in View from a Bridge (1962). He gave a full on the lips kiss to Rodolpho played by fellow actor Jean Sorel. It wasn’t quite in the guy-on-guy action you’d wish for but Eddie attempting to bring out Rodolpho as a latent homosexual. Quite a visual for 1962 America to take in.
And now to the female stars of which there were three. American actress Margaret Blye played dippy Lorna. Looking through Blye’s film credits on www.imds.com sadly she never really had anything I remember.
Lelia Goldoni, on the other hand, had a very small part in the film and was there to just deliver film and plans from her now deceased husband Mr Beckerman. It could be that Italian accent of hers or that she was going to bed a balls empty Croker who can say, she did again like many in the film present larger than life and become remembered for it.
This brings us to the last woman and an icon who anyone old enough from 1937 to 1988 will remember. Irene Handl played Benny Hill’s sister Miss Peach. You may remember her as granny in Metal Mickey. And if that doesn’t help then there are over 180 other things she had been in.
Watching her on screen she was quite camp. Her delivery on time and to the point. Again her lines were memorable with a love for cats and hatred of green fly she could well be a lesbian. An ageing lady known as a Miss. This was 60’s England after all. She also had a maid called Annette who would make any lesbian today scared.
All this good gayness to come out of a film that predated so many and yet it doesn’t so much as get a mention that watching it will turn you into a massive queen, make you into a dyke or other such names we get called.
And why?
I don’t know is the answer. Perhaps because it is just really well put together and has an ensemble of actors who outweighed the bigots then and today. Or that its campness was missed for hi-jinks and feel good factor. Sort of what gays are known for today.
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.
I recently celebrated my third Christmas and New Year’s Eve without alcohol and it got me thinking about the money I’ve saved since giving up drinking alcohol.
I didn’t give up drinking because of money but it certainly hasn’t hurt my bank balance after I discovered that I’ve saved over £12,000 since giving up the alcohol.
I became a non-drinker in the summer of 2014 after a working out that alcohol was doing nothing for my mental health. After suffering a series of extraordinary panic attackers, leading me to some of the darkest moments of my life, I wondered if drinking had anything to do with it. It turns out that it did.
Over two years later, my anxiety is manageable and rarely keeps me up at night. It’s the biggest gift I’ve ever given to myself.
So apart from the biggest gift, what else has no alcohol given me?
Well, I’ve not spent over £12,000 on alcohol. So how did I come to this staggering number?
Here’s how: I eat out probably twice a week, and have a glass or two of wine – let’s say £6 per glass (they were always large) that’s £12 per meal twice a week – that’s £24, also ready I’m £1,248 better off.
Then there was the at home drinking, yep, I think I could easily sink 5 bottles of wine a week. So let’s get those priced up at £6 per bottle that’s £30 per week – that’s £1,560 per year and I’m already at £2,888 per year. That’s not considering birthdays, Christmases, New years and holidays where much more would be consumed.
So where the rest of the money?
How much do you spend on a night out? If I went out one night a week (who goes out just once!) there’s no doubt that I’d spend at least £70 on drinks in an evening (London prices). So let’s add that up… that’s a whopping £3640 per year… and don’t forget the cabs homes, at least £360 per year and the dirty kebab, which I’d probably have 20 times a year – £130. This element of my evening just no longer exists. I drive instead of public transport and cabs and because I’m not drunk I don’t crave the dirty kebab.
Now not spending at least £6448 per year on alcohol. So what am I drinking instead, well some soft drinks when I’m out, which cost a third of the price and I don’t drink nearly many of those as I did glasses of wine, you actually can’t.
So what am I drinking instead? Well some soft drinks when I’m out, which cost a third of the price and I don’t drink nearly many of those as I did glasses of wine, you actually can’t.
At home, I drink water – with a squeeze of lemon. The cost of which is pennies per week.
Then: Glasses of wine with meal £6 x 4 = £24 x 52 weeks = £1248 Now: £1.50 x 4 x 52 = £312 Then: Bottles of wine a week £6 x 5 = £30 x 52 weeks = £1560 Now: Basically free, unless I have soft drinks which never exceeds £10 per week. Let’s say £520 per year. Then: Drinks on a night out £70 x 52 = £3640 Now: £20 x 52 =£1040 Then: Cabs from a night out: £30 x 12 (at least) = £360 Now: Nothing Then: Dirty Kebabs: £5 x 26 = £130 Now: Nothing Total: £6938 per year take away the differences: £5,066
Over 28 months that’s £11,820.
How did I give up? Well, I owe it to this book: Allen Carr’s No More Hangovers, which took me a morning to read. The best £4.99 I’ve ever spent.
What makes a gay icon I hear you ask? Well, there’s not actually a specific set of rules, if someone is an icon, it rarely needs to be said, it’s just known. But there are some celebrities who try desperately hard to obtain the status, and they are laughed at for the most part. I’ll start with these cases first. The ones who so desperately crave a “YAAAASSSS QUEEN” off the gay community, but mostly fall short. A gay icon is created without the need for effort. For the list, I’ll be concentrating on the icons who are currently alive, with an honour roll of icons past at the end.
1. Any member of the Kardashian/Jenner clan.
There I said it, I can hear the wails of anger already. To some, they are the epitome of an icon, but to most, they are shallow, money-hungry, low rent TV reality stars who only got famous after one of them slept with Brandy’s brother and had the tape “leaked”. No one can actually point out specifically what they do. They are famous, merely for being famous. The only good thing they have going for them is they know exactly how to exploit that. Not even Caitlyn Jenner can rescue them. Her “struggles” with coming out as transgender are so far removed from the actual hell that transgender people go through that she is almost universally hated by the LGBT community. These are not people to look up to.
2. Tori Spelling
When someone feels the need to boast about their gay icon status, they are not a gay icon. While a vocal supporter of the gay community, she is far removed from icon status. Having her friends tell her she’s a gay icon doesn’t count. She’s not exactly well known, and it’s unlikely she could command much of a crowd at any event. Yeah, she used to be in Beverly Hills 90210, but who really gives a shit?
3. Katie Hopkins
Oh, Ms Hopkins, you may want to be a gay icon, but this you never shall be. While some gays may like your no nonsense mouth, to most you’re just a loud mouthed harridan who revels in spewing vitriol and trying to be as controversial as possible. It takes class to be an icon, and Katie Hopkins is severely lacking in that. You need a certain gravitas to be able to pull off being a bitch and still be beloved.
4. Perez Hilton
His disgraceful Celebrity Big Brother stint pretty much destroyed any small hope he had of achieving icon status. Gossip monger by trade, he has always tried much too hard to be a gay icon, and it comes across as crass and disingenuous. He has a knack for really pissing people off, and like Ms Hopkins, he doesn’t have the proper qualifications for being bitchy and getting away with it
5. Milo Yiannopoulos
An avid Trump supporter and self-proclaimed “dangerous faggot” Yiannopoulos tries to shock and offend as much as possible and has said incredibly offensive things about transgender people. He is the ultimate in petulant, self-obsessed, narcissistic, nasty, vindictive and hateful gays. And while some people may agree with some of the things he says, he comes across as smarmy and greasy.
6. Nick Jonas
Yes, he’s got a hot body, and a bulge for days, but being a gay tease does not an icon make. People are starting to see through the blatant attempt to appeal to the gay community by posing in very little clothing and playing TV roles that involve man on man action, I’m half expecting his nudes to “leak” at some point when he needs a boost of gay male interest in an upcoming project.
7. Miley Cyrus
Her post-Hannah Montana days shenanigans were mildly entertaining at first, but then it all became rather desperate looking and uncomfortable. She fell out of favour fairly quickly with gay fans, and she never really achieved the status of icon in the first place, despite being an advocate for LGBT rights. She seemed to be desperate for the gays to love her and it riled a lot of people.
And now for some of the true gay icons. In no particular order. This is a difficult list to narrow down because many people are considered gay icons. But there are some who stand out above the rest as the ultimate in enduring gay icons. You can’t hear their name without thinking “gay icon”
CREDIT: kathclick /BigStock
1. Dolly Parton
The queen of cheap and tacky, but amazing with it. Her look, her quirky southern charm, her infamous ahem assets and her attitude are forever endearing to the community. There will always be a Dolly tune you can rock out to, or find solace in. She is a true icon without having to be boastful. She is grateful and loving and supportive. That makes us love Ms Parton.
2. Sir Ian McKellan
Come on people, he’s Gandalf and Magneto, and a massive advocate for the gay community. He’s the true stately homo, with dignity and class, and his bromance with Captain Picard makes the nerd in us scream with excitement. He also loves attending Pride events, and has been known to be found at 3am outside a club, smoking and hobnobbing with fans. A proper British institution.
3. Cher
The big kahuna herself, and when the apocalypse happens, there will be only three things left, Cockroaches, Twinkies and Cher. Not much needs to be said as to why she is a gay icon. She’s bitchy, fabulous and a drag queen’s dream. Her costumes, stage performances and films and TV appearances bring out the queen in all of us. Plus she’s so famous she doesn’t need to know how to order pizza (according to Kathy Griffin) and no one cares. She is one of the ultimate gay icons. She’s Cher bitch!!
4. Betty White
If there’s anything better than sliced bread (she was born before it was even invented) it’s the only remaining Golden Girl herself, Betty White. She’s the matriarch of gay icons, and at 95, she is still rocking and beloved by all. There really isn’t anything bad you can say about this woman, and long may she continue to entertain us. And as the younger generation find out about The Golden Girls, they too will fall in love with Rose Nylund.
5. RuPaul
The drag mother himself, RuPaul has entertained fans for many years. Never one to mince words, RuPaul found fame in 1993 after the song “Supermodel” came out, but it was 2009 that saw his star truly rise when a little show called RuPaul’s Drag Race came thundering onto our screens, and nearly 9 seasons later the show goes from strength to strength, and also reintroduced us to RuPaul’s cohort, Michelle Visage, who is somewhat of a gay icon herself, due to her unwavering vocal support of a community who took her to their hearts.
6. Ellen DeGeneres
Her reminder of “be kind to one another” strikes a chord in the community and her warmth and generosity towards others can only make people smile. She rose from a little-known stand-up comedian to one of the most watched women on TV. People love Ellen, and her gay icon status is very much deserved. She doesn’t take herself seriously and proves that it’s OK to be gay and live a normal life without shame or guilt. A truly inspirational woman.
7. Stephen Fry
I would be hard pushed not to put bitingly witty, intelligent, charming and all round fabulous person Stephen Fry on this list. From the days of Blackadder to the presenter of QI, Fry has been an icon for a long time. He has been voted numerous times as an ultimate gay icon and it’s not hard to see why. His eloquent way of speaking and conducting himself appeals to many fans alike.
8. Madonna
Anyone who can bring voguing into the mainstream deserves a place among the icons. The Queen of Pop and reinvention herself has been popular for 30 years, and to this day still commands massive crowds. Gay fans flocked to Madonna and her ridiculously catchy dance tunes will still get many a gay on the dance floor, and while she may not be as popular as she once, there’s still only one Madonna.
9. Diana Ross
With a gay anthem like “I’m coming out” Diana Ross with all her glittery outfits, and diva-like behaviour screams gay icon. Having a career that’s lasted since God’s dog was a puppy also helps. She’s also probably the only woman to shut down West Hollywood so she could film a music video with RuPaul and 200 drag queens. Gay Icon certified.
10. Bette Midler
Miss Midler was performing in gay venues in the 70s after seeing the positive reaction from the LGBT crowd, and then in 1993, she achieved gay cult status as Winifred Sanderson in Hocus Pocus. Her glittery stage presence and music is always a hit amongst the gay crowd, and while occasionally she has put foot in mouth, her iconic status cannot be refuted.
Some of you may ask why I haven’t included people like Britney, Beyonce or Lady Gaga, Well I’ll explain. The icons I chose have been talking points for a very long time, and I can see them still being talked about long after they are no longer with us. Gaga et al, still have a way to go before true icon status is achieved, and while they have an icon-like following, in my eyes they aren’t legendary…yet!
Honour roll of past gay icons
Carrie Fisher
Joan Rivers
Bette Davies
Joan Crawford
David Bowie
Bea Arthur
Quentin Crisp
Divine
Judy Garland
Donna Summer
Harvey Milk
Marsha P Johnson
James Dean
Marlon Brando
Marlene Dietrich
Lucille Ball
Freddie Mercury
George Michael
Whitney Houston
Alan Turing
Marilyn Monroe
Mae West
Jackie Onassis
Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, it’s management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.
A lot of my friends wonder why I don’t really date.
I recently wrote about how I feel I’ve met my soulmate but it just wasn’t and still isn’t the right time for us. Is my hesitation to date some pathetic attempt to stop time, in hope that he changes into the man I need him to be in order for us to have a successful relationship? Or is there something deeper?
Since he and I broke up, I have dated. My first date was with a French guy I had met on POF. He seemed nice enough when we chatted. When we met in person he asked if I minded running a few errands with him. It was entirely unromantic but I agreed. I instantly regretted this when we made awkward chat in a line at a Post Office. It was the depths of summer so I was sweating, my feet hurt and I felt instantly unsexy. We went for a coffee where he told me about how he hated most ethnic minorities and felt that most gays were a disgrace. Now, I hadn’t dated in a while so instead of listening to the voice in my head that was screaming “run”, I went back to his apartment.
Now, I hadn’t dated in a while so instead of listening to the voice in my head that was screaming “run”, I went back to his apartment.
His apartment was gorgeous with stunning views. We drank champagne and ate strawberries as the sun set. It was romantic and I melted as he told me how he missed home and missed his mother. It deleted all memory of that fact he was a racist, self-loathing homosexual. What can I say? I was fickle and horny.
What can I say? I was fickle and horny.
We eventually went to his bedroom where he suggested we shower. I found this sexy until he suggested we shower separately because it was a hot day and we’d been out all afternoon. Despite alarm bells now ringing loudly in my head, I waited my turn (that’s right, he went FIRST) and then came out in a towel only to discover he was fully dressed. I awkwardly went back into the bathroom and dressed also. We sat and watched a film for a while and then he started kissing me. I reached down to unbutton my shirt and he SLAPPED (PHYSICALLY. SLAPPED.) my hand away. “NO NO NO” he growled, “I DO THIS”. Every single time I tried to undress myself, he’d slap my hand away.
After some very mediocre sex-adjacent acts, I excused myself to the bathroom. In there I noticed, sat on his bathroom shelf, was a tube of cold sore cream. I took a look at myself in the mirror and laughed. I darted out of there without so much as a goodbye. How did I let myself get into that situation?!
Despite this, a few months later, I allowed my friend to set me up on a blind date. “You’ll love him, you have a lot in common” he smiled. I turned up to the date 15 minutes late due to traffic. I
“You’ll love him, you have a lot in common” he smiled. I turned up to the date 15 minutes late due to traffic. I apologised a few times to which he yelled, “STOP F*CKING APOLOGISING”. Startled, I simply replied “sorry” which, admittedly, seemed a little sarcastic. Throughout the date, which was in the romantic Manchester hotspot Wetherspoons, he would avert his eyes to other men. A group of lads walked by our table and he checked them out.
“I would, wouldn’t you?” he smiled.
“You’re supposed to only be looking at me” I laughed, embarrassed that I had to remind him of that.
The date continued in that vein. He told me he loved One Direction which wouldn’t have been a problem until he decided to start dancing to “Best Song Ever” which wasn’t even on the radio. “I know all the moves” he grinned.
Eventually, we got into more serious chat. He told me he had been engaged 3 times (he was 24) and that the longest relationship was 2 years. I told him that I’d been in a serious relationship and was getting ready to date again.
“HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE FER YER TO CALL SOMEWUN YER BOYFRIEND?” he bellowed, in his loud Yorkshire accent.
“Um, probably 4 to 6 months” I replied, confused as to why he’d even ask.
“TWO WEEK FER ME”, he grinned.
Two weeks. I sighed, this clearly wasn’t going to be the love connection my friend had envisioned and I wondered how he’d got it so wrong. After he told me how he loves to watch his partners sleep, I made an excuse to leave.
I called my friend in the taxi. “Honestly, I only spoke to him for 30 seconds but he said he likes wrestling and One Direction so…”. I made my unhappiness extremely clear.
This was three years ago. I haven’t been on a date since. Am I traumatised by my experiences? A little. But the real reason is because, on each of these dates, I allowed it to go a little long. The French guy was an awful human being and the Yorkshireman was way too intense. Yet I stayed with them for hours. Why? I was weirdly grateful they’d even go on a date with me.
I realised that I felt so bad about myself, about how I look and who I am, I was willing to put up with almost anything. My previous boyfriend always told me I was attractive and smart, beautiful and capable. He made me believe in myself. So without him, I crumbled. I needed to learn to believe in myself what he had believed in me. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I keep working on myself and sometimes it works and other times I have set backs. But until I can truly learn to love myself, I cannot date honestly. I am willing to wait to find somebody who gives me what I deserve and who lifts me up. Because, as the great philosopher RuPaul Charles once said, “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell are you going to love somebody else?”
Now, can I get an Amen?
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.
I’m writing this column at the risk of being called a shallow, vain poof. I’m even scared that people may start hurling rotten potatoes at me in the street. But oh well, I have been called a gay Joan Rivers many a time so I’ll take the risk.
I’m hard. Normally in a gay sauna, I am. Anyway, I’m digressing. I like to think I am but underneath my fake tanned, Botox-ed hard-hearted exterior, I’m a pussy cat.
As my friends will tell you, I don’t really have a type when it comes to men. My criteria normally just states they must have a cock and a pulse. And sometimes even the pulse isn’t important. No, no, I’m joking, I’m joking. I thought I’d better point that out before I get arrested by the Old Bill for necrophilia. The point is, I’m very open minded when it comes to men, hence why I don’t have a type. There is just one strict criterion my men must adhere to. GOOD TEETH.
I can’t bear bad teeth. It turns my stomach. The thought that I have to kiss them. Now, I’m not talking wonky wisdoms. That’s fine, it’s just when they’re discoloured and stained. I just think, get yourself down the hygienist.
Now before you all start lynching me and throwing shallow stones in my direction, let me point me out that I’m not perfect. I have a little gap in my front teeth. But I gargle coconut oil every night to ensure they stay gleaming white. People put sunglasses on when I smile.
Talking of my gap, it takes me back to a family roast one Sunday. We’d finished eating and my mum looked at me and said, “you’ve got something in your teeth!”
So there I was having a little pick. I looked back at my mother, waiting for reassurance it was gone. “No, no. It’s still there!” So I picked again. And again. This went on for a full five minutes so I stood up from the table in sheer frustration and walked to the mirror. On further investigation, I realised it was my gap she was referring to and there was absolutely nothing there!
“30 years you’ve known me and you thought it was food stuck and not my gap!”
Anyway, I better talk about my dating story seeing as this is my undateable column. I’ve been set up on a date by my friend Inch again. You know the one who works for Mulberry. I thought I’d give her another chance to get it right. Surely, she’ll do better this time. So, off I trot to the restaurant to this lovely bloke called Lee. He looked very handsome as he stood up at the dinner table to greet me with a kiss. What manners.
We sit down and I order the standard bottle of Sauvignon from New Zealand. My snobby ways never cease to amaze me. The waiter pours it for us and as we lift our glasses to cheers, he shoots me a bloody great smile.
How sweet.
Then my jaw drops quicker than a prostitute’s knickers. His smile includes some rather discoloured teeth. I knock back my glass of Sauvignon like an alcoholic at breakfast.
He’s so handsome, I keep repeating to myself. And then he opens his mouth and it reminds me of my bad teeth phobia. I did spend hours on Google looking for the official name for it, but there isn’t one. Even though there is an ARACHIBUTYROPHOBIA which is the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth, I kid you not. (??!!)
So lee and I, we do get on really really well and we laugh and we enjoy a beautiful meal together. He’s got the looks, he’s got the personality. I try and remember my Sunday school teaching and vow to overcome my shallow behaviour when it comes to his molars. We get up to leave and he goes to kiss me. I pull away, faster than a rat up a drainpipe.
I’m not quite ready for that.
I make my excuses and he asks me back to his. I shock myself and say yes. I tell myself, I can’t kiss him on the lips but maybe I can kiss his…
We arrive back at his gaff and to avoid the kiss on the lips, I automatically drop to my knees.
As I perform fellatio, I hear him screaming. I carry on, gloating and smiling to myself. He’s obviously enjoying it. I feel quite smug as I carry on.
He screams again and I think, God, I’m better at blow jobs than I thought. As he lets out another scream, I think, ooh I better just check he’s alright.
I pull away and I feel his foreskin come with me! I realise it’s caught in my gap!
“Be careful!” He screams as he rubs himself better.
“Oh sorry!” I blush. “It’s my gap!”
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.
Winter is definitely looming over us and I’m embracing the fact that the weather is distinctly nippy. I’m trying hard to not spend my life looking forward to the next season.
I’m not good at living in the moment but instead, long for the next thing on the horizon or hanker after the past. Rather than enjoying the summer, I instead, long to stop sweating, wear my warm clothes and drag out my tweed suits. Instead of savouring the autumn, I dread the dark nights, miss my shorts and long for brighter days. It’s a never-ending cycle for me.
This year, I’m trying hard to appreciate what I have. Here are my tips for a pleasurable cold snap:
1) Enjoy the equality of cold weather: Winter clothes are so much more forgiving. You can hide pale and mottled flash, disguise the lumps and bumps and not worry about all those depilatory issues. Just avoid those Christmas jumpers. They may be retro but so was syphilis and no one rejoiced when that came back.
2) Make like Mrs Beeton: Ditch the diet and reach for the stovetop. Winter is all about gaining weight. It’s genetic, forgivable and indeed, sensible. It’s getting bloody cold; you need an extra layer of blubber to keep you warm. It’s all about soup and cakes for me this year (served separately of course). I’ll be swimming in broth come January but may have to have a layer of butter scraped out of my arteries.
3) Curl up with a good book: What finer winter activity than being stuck inside with a comfortable sofa and a pile of books (or DVDs/Netflix/C.D.s; if you’re so inclined)? It’s the perfect excuse for it. We’re practically captives of the weather. Who are we to argue with nature? Go with the flow and ditch the jogging. It’s all about lolling. Lolling won’t give you chapped lips. Lounging around feels so much less decadent when you can blame it on inclement conditions.
4) Enjoy nature: I suppose we must leave the house at some point and when we do, what better sight than the natural world. Forget summer with its parched showy finery. Winter has many charms too. The foliage is sparser but the wildlife is more visible and bolder. A bracing stroll is good to clear the sinuses. Just make sure you have a good mobile phone signal and a Kendall Mint Cake and forget al-fresco romps unless you want frostbitten nipples.
5) Seek good company: Whether you’re single, coupled or polygamous: the long dark nights can become oppressive and if you’re feeling it, then it’s more than likely that so are your friends. Connecting with people is a good thing. Seek out friends and make an effort to enjoy the oppressive nights together (but only if your book is dull). Whether that’s hanging out in a warm sitting room with friends and Cluedo, snuggling in the snug of a bar or sweating in a sauna: it’s good to share (as long as it’s not body fluids).
Whatever you’re doing this winter, stay safe and warm and if it gets too harsh then there’s always the traditional Russian remedy to winter: a thick eiderdown and vodka.
Damaged Goods or just quirky? In this article, I’d like to look at the concept of “damaged goods” and what we think that means.
We’ve all heard of the term and most of us in one form or another believe we have baggage of some kind that we carry from one person to another. In recent years, I have seen examples of people that have carried around that the belief that in one form or another they are ‘damaged goods’. Their damage comes in all shapes and sizes, some of it small and ‘quirky’ and some of it far larger and core to who they believe they are.
But we can’t really talk about ‘goods’ without talking about baggage. Now we all have baggage in one for another. Experiences, both good and bad, have formed the person we are today and how we respond to different situations. To every relationship (romantic, business, family or friend) you will always bring with you those good and bad bags.
Good bags could be things like a sense of right and wrong, being a hard worker, kindness, care and attention or even an ability to listen. But what are some of the ‘not so good’ bags? Is there such a thing?
Examples of the ‘less that constructive’ emotional bags that people carry could be things like an inability to easily trust, a need for reassurance, over-reaction, inflexibility, selfishness or even a short fuse. All are examples of behaviours that when expressed lead to confusion, miscommunication and negative emotions.
A study conducted in 2014 and published in the Independent newspaper seemed to imply that gay relationships are more likely to be happy and content. But how can this be so? We all carry baggage in one form or another. We have all been bullied or oppressed in one form or another and the negative behaviours those experiences leave are powerful. I’ve seen relationships end due to ghosts of past horrors and indeed scars that have not healed in quite the way they should have.
On the flip side, because most of us have seen trouble in our lives does that mean we actively seek and protect what is more precious to us? That we learn from these experiences and seek out things that make us happy, together as a couple and not just as a sole survivor of life?
But if that’s true then why early this year in August 2016 was it shown that depression and low self-esteem was on the rise amongst gay men? If gay men don’t see themselves as worthy that belief will trickle into their relationships and their workings of that relationship. What becomes a little issue to one becomes a massive issue to another, purely because of the value we place on that issue. But everyone’s values are different so how can you possibly hope to know what it means 100% of the time? To a boy selling his cow at the Market a bean is a symbol of hope, but to the seller of the bean it is just a bean.
Having been there with depression I’d freely admit that I carry my own baggage (both constructive and non-constructive) and can see the situations that they can get you in. It’s taken me a good couple of years to accept and examine those goods and even now I admit that there could be more in my cargo hold that I’ve not seen yet.
The only piece of advice I can give anyone is to remember that we only see with our own eyes and we cannot see everything. As human beings, we cannot know everything and we cannot know what someone is thinking. The truth of the world is always changing depending on where you are standing, therefore keep moving. Look for another angle and you’ll get as close to a truth as you can, and you’d be surprised how often those ‘damaged goods’ are actually quirks that could be quite valuable.
Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, it’s management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.
I’m worried. I’m worried about the classic car market and you lot, the readers. More so the younger ones.
Being one of THEGAYUK’s motoring correspondents you’d expect me to have something new or flash or a bit of both. I don’t. The newest car in my fleet of 4 is a 1993 Fiat Tempra. A car I loved the moment I saw the advert back in 1991. The oldest I own is a 40-year-old VW camper.
In 1988 I was a spotty teenager who just happened to borrow his sister’s Just Seventeen magazine to get his feel of Marti Pellow and the rest of the Wets. In that year Fiat launched the Tipo. I liked the Tipo. It won Car of The Year 1988. THEGAYUK will be reviewing the new Tipo in the new year so I look forward to that.
Two years later Fiat launched the booted version called the Tempra and I don’t know if it was the visual of the car’s lines that struck me or Miriam Stockley’s haunting voice in the advert but l remember it stopping me dead in my tracks.
l said to my still teenage self that one-dayI would have one. The Tempra isn’t anything special or exotic. It’s a four door, five seat Italian saloon that sat below the Lancia and Alfa Romeo derivatives who had luxuries like turbos and V6’s.
The recent NEC classic car show was different this year too. There was more of a shift towards 80’s and 90’s car. The classic car market is quite resilient if you allow the odd old duffer to be slightly knocked sideways in their protests that newer cars being allowed to display actually shouldn’t be. Trouble is, 80’s and 90’s cars are rapidly disappearing from our roads.
Now here lays the problem. I am struggling to see what the young car enthusiast will aspire to in the rapid-fire world of bright and shiny things. In 2016 we all want the latest gadget, the most up to date software, shiniest shoes. This goes for everything these days. Perfectly functioning TVs are being tossed aside because the one in the shops has a curved screen and the 3-year-old unit at home doesn’t. Second place runners are not what we want. We want the best.
The Gay Classic Car Club is a wealthy rich place to find the exotic and the mundane. Members cars range from various Bentleys worth the same as the total sum donated to Children In Need to the modest like an Austin Montego. Now don’t get me started on Montego’s because I can get a little excited about them.
Old cars that I grew up with were simple. A key was turned, the engine turned over, fuel mixed with air in a carburettor, a spark was made and it resulted in propulsion. The cars fell to pieces due to steel reacting with air and water. You kept it going for as long as possible.
I contact manufacturers and ask for various cars to review though not one has made me think about its life as a 20-year-old classic. Due to the throwaway society we have become, I struggle to see many actually last that long. Working with cars I see a lot of people throw a car away these days. A recent 2004 VW Touran was in for diagnosis. It had a faulty NoX sensor. The part alone was £450 from VW. Along with some other bits needed for its MOT and a service, the bill rose to £700. The car was thrown away. I spent £700 on having the Tempra welded up. Thing is, there are still hundreds of Tourans out there. The number of Tempras on the road is 110. Thankfully, due to advances made in car manufacture and dismantling, many of the parts can be stripped and recycled.
So I sit here, at my desk, looking up Marti Pellow in the 80s and ponder what you and I might see at classic car shows in 20 years time. The new Mini, Beetle and 500 will probably still be in abundance but what about the ordinary humdrum car that wouldn’t raise the pulse even if its ignition system was rigged up as some kind of defibrillator and attached to your nipples? Or like my Tempra?
I’ve looked out of my window to the street below in the neighbourhood. I can’t see the Nissan Duke becoming a classic. The Focus, of which there are several, are getting close to the age of being almost semi-classic. It’s still a good car to drive and being that it sold in the zillions, there are plenty still out there. Hardly a rare sight on the road.
There is a 2004 Mazda 6. Twelve-years-old and full of reliability. It’s a bit grey porridge if I’m honest. It’ll never go wrong and because the Japanese don’t rust like they used to, it’ll go on forever. It just won’t be desirable to cherish. Or will it?
I’m sure there are many non-exotic cars that will make it into the echelons of the classic car underworld so in the mean time some of the GCCG members have sent me pictures of their old cars while l still struggle to think what will make it.
PHOTO CREDITS: Chris Ianford (Rover); Graeme Aiken (Rolls); Mike Howart (Cornice); Phillip Trueman (Maxi); Rob Par (Cherry); Stephen Golder (Montego) Stuart M Bird (Tempra)
Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, it’s management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.
