Tag: Ramblings Of A Gay Man

As a child my parents were occasionally like a composite of the characters in the sit-com “The Good Life”. Like Margot and Jerry Ledbetter, they were a teaming mass of petty snobbery but also like Tom and Barbara Good, they were quite self-sufficient. We were dragged along on a regular basis to their allotment garden and forced to help out. In between we’d be roped in to help tend flowerbeds or the fruit trees in our suburban home or water and clean the many potted plants and herbs indoors.

I would receive unwanted gifts to sweeten the pill: a bright blue children’s wheelbarrow and a various miniature garden tools. For me, a Dutch hoe will always be something you push between your potatoes rather than a woman in a bikini in a window in Amsterdam. I recall happily the joy of being given my own patch of soil to grow vegetables in and watching little shoots of life poking through but this was counterbalanced by the horror of being a picky eater with parents who had a seemingly never ending supply of fresh vegetables.

Mud was never a thing I relished, being a pernickety child who liked to dress in tweeds and velvets like a mini aristocrat. I hated being outdoors and whiling away hours that could have been spent indoors hunched over a book reading about Milly-Molly Mandy or Narnia. I’d petulantly pace around collecting insects in matchboxes then putting them back unharmed later or kicking moodily at old tree stumps whilst thinking about the good-looking music teacher who played a guitar. I still recall the repetitive boredom of picking green beans or shelling peas, followed by the even worse indignity of having to eat them.

I longed for parents who bought their vegetables ready washed from Marks and Spencer. Actually, I longed for parents who didn’t buy vegetable at all unless they were pre-cut into crinkle cut chips.

The irony is that my parents taught me some valuable skills: patience and the ability to tend and grow things. I’m now a demon gardener and totally love nature. I’m also a vegetarian who eats at least 10 of my 5 a day. The ironic bit comes in also when you realise that in my London flat I haven’t got a sod of soil to my name. In times of stress I drift off and imagine myself in a soothing suburban garden full of flowers and fruit trees (an unlikely prospect, given London house prices). I picture myself in a cast iron Victorian conservatory spraying greenfly with a copper implement.

Even in my fantasies I draw the line at growing vegetables, though. There’s a huge supermarket round the corner. Some childhood experiences put you off things for life.

I’ve never been a fan of exercise. I don’t suit Lycra, sweat just standing still and don’t like any activity that you can’t do and smoke a cigarette at the same time.

There’s also the whole business of how it taps into my teenage memories of draughty sports halls, hideous PE kits and the barking, homophobic bully of a teacher we had. I once went to look round a gym and had to have a lay down on the sofa afterwards. I didn’t like the testosterone fuelled grunting and the grim determination but the vending machine looked fine to me. They didn’t seem to have a reading area or a kiosk selling cigarettes and Cosmopolitans, though, which was a major negative.

I’ve always thought that I could get away without exercise. I walk for miles. I am thin as a rake and am generally creakily healthy. I’ve been getting these badgering letters for the past year, at least once every couple of months. Apparently, as I’m over 40, I need a health check. My discomfiture at being frequently reminded that I’m over 40 is immense.

Stupidly, I succumbed and am have now been told that I’m fat on the inside. I have moderately high blood pressure, high cholesterol and am carrying a 10 to 20% risk of developing heart disease in the next 10 years. I feel so much better for that. Although I have the BMI of a jogger, I have the blood of a slightly obese man who watches a lot of daytime television.

I protested, naturally. I’m a vegetarian who eats about 15 of my 5 a day. I walk a lot and although I have a penchant for a sugary latte and the odd cream cake, my diet is pretty good. The nurse countered back by pointing out that the main problem was the part of the cholesterol which indicates that I’m not getting enough exercise.

She helpfully suggested that I try swimming (near drowning in 2001, municipal baths, memories of verruca socks: Big Fat NO!), cycling (aside from the fact I can’t balance well enough to ride one, there’s all that mangling type death stuff on the roads to consider: even fatter NO), a gym (Just NO!) and jogging (…live to 90 but with agonisingly painful knees: NO!). Apparently all of these things also need to be done 5 times a week for 30 minutes. Now that’s fanatical, if you ask me. I have a job and a lot of theatre to see.

Naturally, I have a plan. It involves an exercise. I’ll walk up to the counter of Costa Coffee in a brisk manner and very quickly say “A skinny latte please” and without breaking out a sweat, I’ll pour in 2 sachets of sugar instead of the usual 3. I think that should help. I’ll think about the exercise next year and in the meantime I’ll briskly turn the pages of a novel. That should sort it all out.

It’s that time of year when the sun shines (on and off) and we go to work on and off due to a string of bank holidays. If you’re anything like me then your mind will, sadly, turn to the dull subject of cleaning.

I’ve always had a bit of a minor obsession with cleaning. Maybe it’s because I’m descended from a long line of Northern housewives. Bleaching net curtains and scrubbing steps is part of my heritage. I don’t quite go as far as donning a crossover pinny and a headscarf though.

It started in my youth. My father was an obsessively tidy man and would set us all off into cleaning missions at the weekends. This was compulsory. I soon managed to gain a little number where I would get extra pocket money if I helped out as a regular thing. I quickly learnt that the power of creating order out of chaos was a cathartic, as well as financially lucrative, act. Pushing round our old feeble vacuum cleaner with its crinkly brown paper bags and flicking away at dust with a bright yellow duster bought me an enormous sense of satisfaction.

A psychologist once told me that my desire to be clean and tidy was a way of exerting order into my often-chaotic life. Although I have little control over my stressful job, the sometimes-dodgy men in my life or my family, I can control how shiny the bath taps are. She definitely had a valid point.

I’ve bought every gimmicky cleaning product on the market, over the years, damaging not only the environment but also my pocket and probably my lungs. I’ve staggered out of chemical warfare clouds in foggy bathrooms, burnt my hands with excessive bleach and teetered on rickety chairs to reach nooks and crannies that really don’t need reaching. I’ve washed the numbers off the controls of a brand new cooker by using neat detergent, taken the surface off loo seats and generally caused a lot of mishaps.

I’m much more moderate than I used to be. Maybe I’m more mentally healthy than I used to be or maybe just too tired to be bothered with it all. I’ve learnt to live with the odd streak on the mirrors or a dusty crevice. It’s not the end of the world and certainly no terrible reflection on me or my morals and decency.

I definitely see a solution ahead but it’s a complex and difficult goal. It involves a rich husband and a fleet of maids. I’m not sure that my partner would approve though.

It’s almost one year since I moved to London from the Midlands and it’s been an interesting experience.

My friends fell into two camps. They were either horrified that I could think of moving to such a place, visualising that I’d be living in a minute flat somewhere akin to Piccadilly Circus and spending my days shouldering rude and unfriendly people out of my way, lonely and afraid and paying ten pounds for a latte. The other camp was more excited and saw it as a huge opportunity.

Maybe both were right. It has been the most exciting opportunity but my elbows are definitely sharper and keener to shove. The chances to see art and culture are amazing and I tend to wear myself out trying to see too much. I’ve had to give myself a stern talking to after periods where I’ve been doing so much that I’ve been left feeling frazzled.

I live in a place no busier or madder than where I lived before and the coffee is the same price. Maybe my rent is a little higher (3 times higher and the increased wages don’t cover this) but it feels worth it and I have plenty of room and lots of leafy green spaces nearby. As for the unfriendliness: people here are just as friendly as in the North. People talk to me at bus stops and checkouts and are happy to engage and connect. The place I work is full of people who are warm and kind. People on public transport are no less rude than further north (i.e. still quite rude). Maybe the tube is less friendly, but who can blame that population. They’re crammed into packed carriages underground trying hard to get somewhere: wouldn’t you be a little bit determined with no energy left to chat or smile?

Statistics show a huge North/South divide in terms of money and employment and rates of immigration that falls into pockets depending on area. Personally, I hate lazy stereotyping. People are people wherever you live. Yes, those London accents are sometimes tricky to understand and they do get irate when I call them all Cockneys. Yes, jellied eels will never replace chips and gravy in my heart but I bloody love London and I also bloody love my hometown too. Long live mobility.

I often feel such apathy when it comes to politics and I’m a little ashamed of this. We live in an age of complacency when we often feel that having the latest technology, watching the latest T.V. program or owning the latest item of clothing is of rank importance and it’s hard not to fall into that pattern.

Sitting in the comfort of my home, I feast my eyes on the events of other countries and let myself feel briefly indignant at how homosexuals are treated in Russia and some African countries and then I pour myself another coffee and carry on flicking through a glossy magazine or idly perusing the Internet.

I saw a play yesterday about the 1967 legal changes that paved the way for gay equality in the UK. The laws that were passed led to homosexuality being decriminalised between consenting adults in private, albeit with an unequal age of consent. It’s hard to believe that it was so recent in our history that we were recognised as lawful and not some sinister and grotesque force of evil.

Contrast this with stepping out of the theatre and seeing a right wing group with racist and homophobic ideals marching in protest through central London. It’s a stark reminder that we may have won the majority of the battles over the past 50 years but that the war is far from over. We’re in constant danger of losing ground. Public opinion changes and forces with evil or just ignorant and misguided intent gain ground without us even noticing.

Pre-1967 there was a dark and dangerous climate for us. Blackmail, imprisonment, and psychiatric therapy: these were all far from unusual things for the homosexual male to be faced with as well as venom, hatred and vilification.

Like most of us, I’m a little bit lazy, slightly complacent and frequently preoccupied with own tiny sphere of existence. This isn’t going to change massively. However, I have made a vow and that’s to be more aware. I’m going to read more, notice more and see where that takes me. I’m not going to turn into Peter Tatchell and put myself in the firing line constantly (my nerves are too fragile for that) but at least it’s a step forward. Maybe you could join me in this? Who knows where it’ll take us and what good it might do.

Right, that’s enough politics. The soapbox can go back for storing soap in and I’m off to look around shops. I’ve done my political thinking for today.

This week has seen me languishing on my sofa.

’ve always been a sickly person from childhood onwards with migraines, infections, joint pains and a general lack of robustness. This has carried on into adulthood along with an unhealthy dose of health anxiety and a bag full of pills for every eventuality. I I can swallow a whole handful of pills in one (is this the meaning of deep throat?). You’d think I’d be better at it by now but I’m absolutely rubbish at being ill.

I’ve had a rip-roaring kidney infection with associated back pain, nausea, joint aches and high fevers. Nipping to the loo every five minutes is no fun either especially when it entails what I call Cockburn (it’s pronounced Co-burn, so they tell me). Before you start thinking the worst, it’s not an STD, just some hideous bacteria that has sneaked its way in and knocked me off my perch, probably exacerbated by being tired and stressed. Not that I’d be ashamed of an STD. It happens to the best of us.

I have fond memories of childhood illness: watching ‘Sons and Daughters’, Tomato Soup, Lucozade in crinkly cellophane wrappers and boiled eggs whilst lolling on the sofa with a favourite book. I except these are just skewed memories. Nostalgia often casts a rosy glow on things that weren’t like we remember them at all. We can look back on a tedious holiday full of atmosphere and recrimination and remember it as a jolly time. Festive gatherings are often edited with family rows and disappointments on the cutting room floor. Being ill is rubbish. It’s boring and dull. Just how much ‘Homes Under the Hammer’ can you watch before going out of your mind? When I’m at work, I crave a week off but never in my fantasy does that week off involve frequent G.P. trips and lying in a pool of sweat and shivering.

I have a romanticised ideal of illness that stems from reading too many Victorian novels where the heroine languishes on her fainting couch, a small dog on her lap and a bottle of Laudanum to sip. In reality those couches were stuffed with horse hair and terribly uncomfortable, I’m sure, and no one really wants the Laudanum as it’s just a historic term for Heroin and that’s a route I’m not planning to go down.

It was a bad prognostic sign when I had to walk out of a play, as I was feeling so sick and shivering with fever. I never leave a good play and consider it bad manners to walk out. As bad as it’s been for me to feel so rough, my poor partner (who works from home) has suffered more. As Baby Jane to my hollering Blanche he’s had to fetch and carry, listen to my pitiful whine and exhibit a huge amount of patience.

Luckily for him, I’ve been sleeping about 18 hours a day so he’s had some respite. I may have dreamt that moment where he hovered clutching a pillow menacingly over my face. Maybe I didn’t, though and I wouldn’t blame him.

I can’t imagine being seriously ill or having some chronic condition as so many people do. I’m not cut out for it. The people who suffer like this have my empathy.

I try to look for a positive in most things. I can only find two: I’ve spent less money and lost half a stone in weight. Thankfully, I’m starting to feel better and my diseased urinary tract is settling down, thanks to a course of strong antibiotics. I’m actually looking forward to going back to work and having some normality. Stay well, people.

I was watching an interiors program the other night and, unsurprisingly, the majority of male participants were gay.

This led me to ponder why it is that gay people are so talented in the fields of the arts? We’re prominent in theatre, dance and design. Fashion would be stuck in the doldrums without us. The world of hairstyling would be severely depleted and there’d be a lot less fancy window displays in the big shops. Do we have a special gene? Is it a class we all take at gay school? Are we just born amazing, with an eye for colour and where to put an accented scatter cushion?

We’ve got comedy cracked with our acerbic wit. We can write, sing and paint with amazing results. We’re even infiltrating sports with our buffed physiques teetering on the edges of diving boards and our good legs managing to kick balls about whilst looking hot in shorts. Is there no limit to our talents?

If you listen to our detractors; we can topple governments, corrupt children and make whole nations quake with just a click of our delicately manicured fingers. We can have whole countries living in terror of us, leading them to pass laws to suppress us, trying to make us impotent and powerless. Religions pass judgements on us just so that they can try to hide our clearly superior talents.

Is there nothing we can’t do? Maybe we’re the master race. We’re a force to be reckoned with, strong, talented and amazing with a little bit of fabulousness and good skin to add to the mix.

..or maybe we’re just people. Maybe that’s why we terrify some people so much. We’re just a group of people who happen to be gay and are pretty much the same as people who don’t happen to be gay, with a varying range and mix of talents and characteristics.

Now that must be truly terrifying for some people.

(more…)

I was looking out of my kitchen window the other day and watching the sky. It was a sunny day but with banks of clouding blowing past. I don’t become sentimental or wax lyrical very often but I was taken with how beautiful the clouds were with a range of shapes and colours and an ever-changing view. I’m all for the beauty of a clear blue sky but wouldn’t it be a bit boring to not have the clouds too?

I progressed even further with my sentimentally and began to think about my friends and how they’re much the same: frequently cloudy. I don’t think that I know anyone whom I call flawless and perfect. If I did, then I probably wouldn’t stay in touch with them for long. I’d be severely tried by their lack of blemishes, whether emotional or physical. What on earth would we have to talk about if everything was fantastic and life hadn’t thrown a few punches, leaving subsequent bruises? The media created automatons that we watch and read about are so dull that we desperately wait to have some dirt on them unearthed so that we can gloat. I don’t just like people in spite of their quirks, anomalies and faults; I frequently like them because of them.

Wouldn’t it be a boring world if we all had sculpted torsos and unblemished skin? The cult of hard bodied youth has its merits but, personally, I’m more intrigued by a bit of imperfection. My eyes will scan over a perfume advertisement model’s bronzed flesh with a barely recognised acknowledgment. Show me a perma-tanned youthful pop singer with airbrushed skin and I’ll show you a thousand others. However, show me a slightly battered and craggy older man and I’ll be much more likely to feel a tug of attraction and curiosity. In a Photoshopped world it’s good to reality check.

Wouldn’t it be good if we could be less influenced by what we see and weren’t so likely to translate it into what we want to be? It’s a very hard state to achieve. Who doesn’t want to a bit thinner/more bulky/less or more hairy and older/younger/better looking etc. etc.?

As New Year’s Eve approaches, if you must make resolutions (they’re a bit passé aren’t they, though, really?), then make them about being what you want to be and not what you think you the world wants you to be. Your flaws are so often what makes you fantastic and I for one, love you for them.