Doctor Who is Brilliant

Doctor Who is brilliant. There is absolutely no argument here. However, for the sake of this debate, I will forge an argument. But it’s wholly unnecessary. Why? Because Doctor Who is brilliant.

Let’s start with the basics:

The TARDIS. The Doctor’s home / method of transport / time machine is magnificent and much better than your one bedroom ex-council flat in Londonville or wherever you live. His home is essentially an intergalactic time travelling caravan, except instead of a pokey kitchen-slash-dining room-slash-bedroom-slash-toilet, it’s a vast palatial caravan that’s bigger on the inside than on the outside. It even has a swimming pool. Does your £600 a month studio hovel have a swimming pool? No, it doesn’t.

The sonic screwdriver. Think of a regular screwdriver and how shit it is. You spend hours turning screws into cheap flat-pack furniture until your hands are raw with friction burns and then, because the screws are too fiddly, the screwdriver slips and impales your thigh. You pass out from blood loss due to the sheer amount of red liquid gushing from the hole in your leg and when you awake, you have to haul yourself to hospital via public transport because you can’t afford a cab as you lost your job last week and if you waited for an ambulance to arrive you would surely die. You then sit in a cold, over-lit waiting room full of sick unfriendly people for at least six hours, after which time they finally stitch you up. By now it’s too late, you have already contracted a hospital-acquired infection and you will now remain bedridden for the next six weeks. All the Doctor has to do with his screwdriver is point and zap. Plus it can also open any lock. All your screwdriver can do is create thigh-based puncture wounds.

“You’re expecting me to make a ‘anal probe’ joke aren’t you? Well, I won’t.”

The fag hags. Let’s face it; the Doctor is a 900-year-old bachelor who travels around with a bevy of beautiful, whip-smart ladies with which he has no sexual contact. They are fag hags. Who wouldn’t want an ‘Amy Pond’ as our best girl buddy – a gorgeous, feisty redhead with the propensity to shout the last word of every sentence? Then there is the exotic and equally stunning Martha Jones, who is pretty enough to be an asset to your clique but lacking in any real personality so she doesn’t upstage you. You could argue that the Doctor fell in love with Rose Tyler but she only ever kissed a human version of him that had regenerated from his severed hand during a human-Timelord meta-crisis. So he is at the very least bisexual.

The Fashion. The current incarnation of the Doctor is a trend setter. If you don’t believe me then take a trip to Topman, it’s full of tweed blazers with leather elbow patches, bow ties and braces. Couple this dapperness with his floppy public schoolboy hair and you have the epitome of ‘this season’. Go on, admit it, you dress like him don’t you?

Regeneration. If a regular human suffered a mortal wound then all they would do is lay there, crying and moaning, repenting every bad word they had uttered from their hell-bound mouth and generally make a bloody mess everywhere with their innards. Well the Doctor has a way to cheat death by rejuvenating every cell to form a new body, which avoids the normal but unseemly and ungraceful blubbing of a dying person (unless it’s David Tennant’s weepy tenth Doctor and his sappy “I don’t want to go”).

The TV show. On a serious note, the programme itself is as innovative, well executed and superbly acted as any mainstream series on television. To dismiss it as a children’s show is to miss the point entirely. While Doctor Who is pitched as family entertainment, it doesn’t patronise the audience and has contained some of the most complex plots and heart-wrenching drama to appear on our screens this year. The opening gambit of the latest season where we watched the Doctor gunned down and killed was breathtaking and a brave direction, The Silence were genuinely boxer brief-wettingly creepy and Matt Smith showed his acting chops playing a man (well Timelord) dealing with his inevitable death. A special mention should also be made for Alex Kingston’s delightfully campy, scenery-munching portrayal of the gun-toting River Song.

Now look me in the eye and tell me Doctor Who isn’t brilliant. Yeah, I thought as much.

Rihanna: Sign of the apocalypse

Deploy shit album. TARGET: The world.

I should probably state before I launch into any sort of tirade, that I do not hate manufactured pop. In fact I freely admit to being an unashamed fan of most mainstream chart hits. Some people might even tell you that I have spent many a night on the dance floors of sweaty gay clubs teaching people the intricate choreography of Girls Aloud’s seminal classic Love Machine. But those people would be liars. Awful LIARS.

The manufactured music industry seems to be going through a new golden age of late, with a glut of successful female popstars being unleashed upon the public from the assembly lines of hit-making factories around the globe. The majority of the current wave of singing and dancing machines seem to have their own little design quirk that sets them apart from their contemporaries. Katy Perry appears to have been installed with a humour chip, Lady Gaga has downloaded the ego app, Beyoncé has been upgraded to Microsoft Sass Vista and Britney Spears has contracted a particularly virulent strain of batshit crazy Malware, which makes her endlessly entertaining. Then there is Rihanna, an empty automaton. A dancing, singing iPod with a pretty face.

My problem with Rihanna isn’t so much her musical output (although her new single is fucking terrible), it’s her performances. To watch her in a music video is akin to watching the humanoid dancing robot in the Citroën ad belt out a tune, except that the transforming CGI vehicle would likely give a more touching rendition. Look at her attempt to ‘rock out’ in one of her earlier promos Shut Up and Drive:

Note the blank, almost steely, gaze and the lack of connection to the lyrics. It’s as if her internal data servers Googled ‘dance moves’ and quickly uploaded ‘punch the air’ and ‘swivel hips’ without bothering to fire up the emotion engines.

The Ri2000, as she will now be referred to, has recently undergone a systems upgrade, which has enabled her to remove parental restrictions and increase adult content (she is also now WiFi and 3G compatible). All musical and visual output is optimised for sexual imagery. She prowls the stage like a horny Cylon, flashing her circuit boards and hard drive in order to distract from her lacklustre monotone singing voice (or ‘digital stereo speakers’ if I’m to continue with this tired metaphor). Songs such as S&M and Rude Boy are essentially just extended musical versions of the late night call line adverts you see on Channel 5 sung rigidly by a cock-hungry Decepticon.

If you still don’t believe me that Ri2000 is a malevolent cyborg created by Def Jam Record’s top secret Advanced Science & Technology division, then look closely at a photograph of her. Look into those cold, expressionless eyes. That chill you felt creeping down your spine and the goosebumps on your forearms are caused by the fact you recognise the absence of a soul in this she-bot. Now look again and tell me that your first instinct is not to run away from her screaming and to go and warn John Connor that his life, and the future of humanity, is in danger.

You can’t, can you?

Run. Run while you can.

An email my friend wrote…

I have a friend called Michael and we see eye-to-eye on very little. He drinks white wine and I drink red. He eats sweet popcorn and I eat salty. He is an unashamed bottom and I…I’m more open-minded.

When it comes to issues of homosexuality he believes that, as a community, we should be happy with our lot. He doesn’t have much time for campaigning gay rights and for those who campaign for gay rights. For Michael, the world is powered by money and he is an out-and-out capitalist, where human emotion is just an annoying, weepy shadow. I, of course, vehemently disagree with him on most of these points and we often have lengthy (mostly baseless) debates about the state of gay rights in the UK, in which his argument is, more often than not, that “we should all just stop bloody whining” (said in a Cumbrian accent – he’s Cumbrian).

Which is why this email he wrote to the Deputy Director of the Catholic Education Service was surprising:

To whom it may concern,

It’s totally disgraceful that you are attempting to persuade young and impressionable adults to sign this petition. Not only this but in a state school which is paid using my taxes! Yes LGBT people pay taxes. You are clearly in breach of sections 406 and 407 of the 1996 Education Act, which ban the political indoctrination of schoolchildren and require political views to be presented in a balanced way.

I have just been on the Coalition For Marriage and what a disgrace.

“People’s careers could be harmed, couples seeking to adopt or foster could be excluded, and schools would inevitably have to teach the new definition to children.”
Do you agree with this? How could a person’s career be harmed? How would a couple be excluded from adopting? Teach a new definition to children?

“People should not feel pressurised to go along with same-sex marriage just because of political correctness.”
You should not pressurise children in signing a petition just because you are bigots.

The catholic church cannot claim a moral high ground when you have covered up child sex abuses by your own priests.

“Schools with a religious character are allowed to teach sex and relationships – and conduct assemblies – in accordance with the religious views of the school. The Catholic view of marriage is not a political view; it’s a religious view.”

The last time I checked I voted in a Parliamentary election so that Members of Parliament can legislate in my interests. This is not about a religious view but about a political view and fortunately your view will not be considered as marriage (the word) will be legislated to allow LGBT people to use.

Kind Regards,

Michael

Poor grammar aside, I’m extremely proud of my friend for taking an email-based stand. It takes a lot for Michael to be passionate about anything other than money and for him to take the time to write this, with a clear passion, is an indication of how strongly many of us gay-folk feel about this situation.

Don’t tell him I wrote this, I’ll never hear the sodding end of it.

 

Gay Nazis & other stories

TO ALL READERS (all ten of you): This blog post was written months ago for another site. However, it’s sadly still relevant, which is why I’ve decided to repost it here. ‘Enjoy’!

Are you gay? If so, you should be ashamed of yourself. You are an inciter of genocide, repression and cause people to have cancer-related deaths. I bet you eat babies and kick puppies too. You utter bastard.

Over the past few weeks gay rights campaigners have been compared to Nazis in an article published by The Church of England Newspaper (hilariously dubbed the ‘Gaystapo’ – the scamps) and the Daily Mail, Britain’s champion of white middle class moral insanity, has accused Tesco of choosing a gay cause over that of saving lives, due to its switch in sponsorship from Cancer Research’s Race For Life to London Pride, thus consigning thousands of cancer suffers to imminent death (if the wording in some of the Mail’s comment pieces are to be believed). It seems that our stubborn will to not repress who we are is harming the very fabric of society, as our selfish quest for equality and acceptance rapes the existence of traditional values and bludgeons to death those that hold dear good Christian behaviour. We must be stopped at any cost.

It is astonishing that as we head towards 2012, this kind of attitude towards homosexuals continues to persist. We were supposed to be in a post Sex & The City and Will & Grace utopia, a golden age where we could openly embrace same-sex folk in public, come out to our friends and family without fear of rejection and walk unashamedly hand-in-hand with the one that we love down any suburban high street without getting a good murdering.

When reading Alan Craig’s article for The Church of England Newspaper, his fear of gay men and women’s increasing prevalence and the impact of allowing us to marry is palpable. Just what is it about us that threatens Alan (who is the leader of the Peoples Christian Alliance) and those like-minded? The origins of his feelings can probably be gleamed from this choice excerpt:

“They want to hijack a word and capture our culture at its deepest level. They want to reconfigure relationships, eliminate the traditional family and hence eradicate stable upbringing for our children. They want SSM – same-sex ‘marriage’.”

It’s a fear-mongering hate-filled little outburst of irrationality. While I don’t speak for the entire gay community (although I would love that job) our plight is not to destroy what once was, the so-called ‘traditional’, but to enrich it. To build upon an ancient and respected institution, open it up and make it inclusive of everybody. If my memory of history lessons in school serves me correctly (it may not – I’ve gone done a lot of drinking since then), this is the complete opposite of Nazism and to compare those who tirelessly campaign for gay rights to a brutal dictatorship is not only wildly insulting but also grotesque. The implication that the actions of gay rights advocates will set in motion a Christian Holocaust is so far beyond the realm of reality, that it doesn’t surprise me that Alan believes in the power of an invisible, unprovable deity.

Richard Littlejohn’s little rant in his Daily Mail column about Tesco choosing to support WorldPride London is homophobia at its finest, which should be consigned to the impotent ramblings of an unread blog (yes, like this one – I said it before you could), not published in a widely distributed national newspaper. It simply shouldn’t exist. Every line of the admittedly small piece radiates with offence, from horrendous stereotyping:

“If gays want to dress up as Carmen Miranda or mince up and down the Mall in nothing but their knickers, that’s fine by me.”

To the utterly outrageous:

“…why would Britain’s biggest supermarket want to be associated with such an event, at the expense of cancer victims?”

Littlejohn also goes on to imply that an animal charity is a more deserving cause than homosexuals, although he has allowed us to walk around outside wearing what we want, so that’s a small step towards liberalism. While I’m aware that it’s a futile exercise to get worked up by the Mail’s right-wing rhetoric, I believe that it’s dangerous for articles such as this to go by without comment, particularly when they indirectly suggest that by our very existence we are causing others to suffer. What Littlejohn has failed to comprehend is that the Pride organisation is a registered and deserving charity that promotes equality, community and helps us LGBT folk take a stand against discrimination. It’s not just a big awesome party (although that is a major selling point).

To those reading this that may share the views of the aforementioned writers, I would like to make this plea: We aren’t the sexuality Borg here to exterminate your culture and assimilate you and your children into our homosexual collective. We are a peaceful race merely seeking to co-exist on your planet and share the same rights, privileges and acceptance afforded to the rest of the human populace.

Resistance is futile.

Twitter: My naked ambition

The following article is based on wild and probably inaccurate assumptions about the types of people that use Twitter and Facebook. To enjoy the ensuing words, can I please ask that you go along with these baseless theories? If you don’t, I’ll hate you forever.

When it comes to social media, Twitter is very highbrow isn’t it? Depending on who you follow, your Twitter timeline can consist of political insights, up-to-date news stories and the praise singing of the latest fraudulent ice-based BBC nature documentary. There is the occasional reality show tweet but they are usually sneering yet witty observations about how much better we are than the participants and the trending topics tend to be the most current of affairs, as long as you pretend the words ‘Bieber’ and ‘One’ and ‘Direction’ don’t exist. Facebook on the other hand regularly consists of a series of misspelled status updates, comments about whatever soap happens to be airing at the time or people just explaining what they had for dinner. It seems to be the shallower social media option, which perhaps says more about the company I keep than the website itself.

I currently have 483 ‘friends’ on Facebook and while many of them are genuine acquaintances, some of which I actually like as humans, others are what I deem to be ‘random’ additions to my profile. The majority of these ‘random’ friends were generated from a time when I had a provocative, yet tasteful-ish, profile picture. The photo in question is black & white and features me shirtless, greased up and shiny and was posted during a time when I was single, starving for attention and generally being an egotistical prick. It turns out that this incredibly false representation of myself (I’m not black & white and I’m rarely greased up) is like catnip for the shallow gays of Facebook and I was receiving around 20 friend requests a week.

My follower count on Twitter has been steadily increasing since I joined and seems to have peaked around the 370 mark. It appears to be a social network where the amount of followers is dependent on the quality of the words you type and has less emphasis on your picture, which is why I randomly chose an old fully-clothed snap as my avatar, without really giving it much thought. As my Twitter rut started to take hold, my thoughts drifted back to my Facebook boom heyday and I started to wonder whether changing my profile picture to something more revealing would increase or decrease my follower count. So I did. Here are the results:

Looking slick. Literally.

DAY ONE: Literally seconds after I posted the new picture, I lost two followers. I put this down to a previous series of tweets discussing how much I wanted a cup of coffee (I didn’t end up having a cup of coffee for those enthralled by that storyline). Follower count: 368

DAY ONE part two: To alert people to the change, I published a tweet to say that I had a new profile photo and to curb accusations of being a narcissistic bell-end, I stated that I expected to lose followers. In hindsight, this could have been seen as compliment fishing (Don’t look at me like that. Attention is nice). Here is a selection of the responses I received:

“@[Anonymous] Lose? You’ll gain dozens.”

“@[Namemaskedforprivacypurposes] Gain you mean!  ”

“@[Rubbishpseudonym] Well I’m made of hardy stuff. I’ll stick around  ”

So far, so ego-boosting. Still no new followers. Follower count: 368

DAY TWO: I awoke to find that I had three new followers. Upon closer inspection I discover that one is a greetings card business, one is a guy who tweets wisdom-laden quotes from his mum and the other is a girl from Coventry with an ‘I ♥ 1D’ symbol on her page. While not my target audience, I accept all new followers with good grace. Follower count: 371

DAY TWO part two: By 2pm my follower count had dropped by one. The dear Coventry-based One Direction-loving girl had jumped my Twitter ship. Perhaps she couldn’t handle the sight of my glistening naked body or perhaps she was scared off by my tweet saying that I wanted Marcus from the X Factor to sit on my face. Follower count: 370

DAY THREE: The news of my shirtlessness had clearly spread, as two new people began following me, both shirtless themselves interestingly enough. I felt like I had been welcomed into some torso-baring super club, frequented by models, wannabe models, the deluded and those that obscure their face with an iPhone. Follower count: 372

DAY FOUR: Another new follower and a few tweets referring to my new picture today. Some of the tweets are bordering on lewd innuendo, which fuels my ego considerably. I also judge them considerably – I’m fickle like that. Follower count: 373

DAY FOUR part two: One more follower appears but it’s a brand sponsored account. I guess I’m lucky that it wasn’t for dickheadswithshirtlessphotos.com. Indecently, the profile is for a book publisher (see, HIGHBROW). Follower count: 374

DAY FIVE: Over night I gained three and lost one. The new followers must be a result of my picture, as I had tweeted nothing of worth in three days (not deliberately to make the experiment fair, I’m just really boring). Follower count: 376

DAY SIX: I lost three followers. Thankfully not because my photo offended them so much that they vomited through their eyeballs but because of my incessant comments about the X Factor final. Not highbrow enough for you followers? Huh?! Yeah, fuck you. Follower count: 373

DAY SEVEN: The final day of my experiment and my numbers continued to drop. I contemplated a cock-shot to really throw the penis among the pigeons but I ultimately decided it would hurt my credibility as a serious writer. Serious writers are allowed to say ‘cock-shot’. I swear. Follower count: 372

In conclusion, this experiment has proven nothing. My new profile picture had no real effect on the types of people who decided to follow or unfollow me. In fact, you could argue that Twitter, like the majority of the planet, is largely indifferent to my naked torso. So as I head to the gym, climb onto the treadmill and run through the tears, I would like to apologise for wasting your time. Twitter and Facebook are as shallow or as highbrow as you wish to make them and no amount of gratuitous flesh flashing will change that. Not if you’re oily and colourless anyway.

The Good Relationship Guide

Hey there!

How are things with the other half?

Good I’m glad it’s working out for you. So things are going well, no issues?

Excellent, you’ll be moving in together next.

Wait, why are you crying? God please stop crying!

Look how content they are. Arseholes.

Relationships can often be the most wondrously joyous of experiences; however an equal proportion of the time they can be traumatic, soul-sucking, bastard hell disasters, robbing you of your dignity, compassion and ability to function as a real live human. According to a book called It’s Your Right to be Wrong in Relationships, up to 95% of people feel unfulfilled in their relationship, which means that only 5% of us have a liaison that satisfies. Still crying? I am.

There is no need to fret however, as the book tells you how to make your next entanglement a stonking success, including how to open up your heart, how to increase intimacy and what to do if you get stuck in a place of blame and shame. While I’m sure the guide is very thorough and offers some practical advice, it may seem a little bit self-help-y for some (particularly me, as most self-help tomes make me want to vomit through my eyeballs). With that in mind, I thought I would use my vast and personal knowledge of failed relationships to put together my own collection of tips to increase the life span of your love connection:

1. Never furiously text

This doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t send a text message while you’re angry (although that is a good tip), it means you should try and refrain from instantly replying to a casual text message, as nothing says ‘needy’ and ‘desperate’ more than a return message that flashes up on your phone literally seconds after the original was sent. Also, if the subject of your SMS doesn’t reply immediately, this does not mean you should then bombard him/her with follow-up texts along the lines of:

“Hey, I just wondered if you got my text? xoxo”

“Still no reply…just checking you’re OK xx”

“Hi me again, just seeing if my messages are getting through XxX”

“Still no answer…”

“Where are you?!”

“Right I’m outside your f*cking door, I can see the light on”

“Why won’t you f*cking answer me??!!”

2. Angry? Don’t drink

Alcohol is a wonderful thing. It makes you at least 50% funnier, 80% sexier and 95% cooler and it is the single best invention in mankind’s illustrious history. However, if you have had an argument with your partner or are pissed off with them for any reason, alcohol should be avoided. An abv beverage will transform what began as a minor tiff into something of apocalyptic proportions. When it comes to an inter-relationship row, alcohol becomes bastard fuel that drives you to a point beyond a reasonable and quick resolution. My responsible advice is to only drink to get absolutely wasted on a night out or to suppress unwanted emotions.

3. Don’t be (too) honest

For the love of sanity never tell the truth you idiots. I don’t mean actively lie about cheating or murder, just for your own self-preservation lie about the little things. If your other half cooks for you and it turns out to be a rancid inedible mess, just choke the meal down and smile. It will prevent the crushing of your partner’s ego and in the future just make sure it is always “your turn” to cook. When you wake up in the morning and your boyfriend/girlfriend turns to you and asks, “Baby, do I look rough?”, you should battle every urge to tell them that they look like bedraggled malnourished tramp. Instead you should look them in their blood-shot bag-ridden eyes and sweetly whisper, “You look amazing. I don’t know how you look this good in the morning.” Remember, they probably do it for you too.

4. Never say you ‘love’ something

I am referring to the casual over-used comments that we often make in day-to-day life, such as “I love wearing scarves” or “I really love Dairy Milk”. While to us they are frivolous throw-away lines, a significant other will bank these comments in the ‘Future Gift Options’ part of their brain, meaning that for every Christmas and birthday you will receive a present that is a variation on that theme. You may only ‘quite like’ Dairy Milk but in a partner’s bid to prove that he/she ‘really knows you’, they will bury you in a deluge of chocolate-related gifts. As you don’t want to hurt their feelings, you feign gratitude as you unwrap another selection box and force a smile to form on your disappointed lips. Over the years resentment will build, until one Christmas morning you are arrested and hauled off by the police for bludgeoning your lover to death with a 1kg bar of Fruit & Nut.

5. Acknowledge that Facebook is evil

When you are single sites such as Facebook and Twitter can be wonderful networking tools and glorified online dating agencies, however once you enter coupledom they can be your downfall. If you are as desperately insecure as me, paranoia will set in and you will spend hours trawling the Facebook page of your partner, analysing each added friend and posted picture. You will scream futilely at the computer screen in a jealous rage every time an attractive person comments on their latest status update and you will obsess for days if they don’t respond to your request to register as ‘in a relationship’. For your own mental health, I advise you to switch off your laptop.

There you have it, a complete guide on how to not balls up your relationship. Please get in touch with me via Twitter for the address to send any thank you gifts, cards and flowers. I will leave you with this rather fitting (and depressing) quote from the occasionally brilliant but now defunct TV show Dollhouse:

Everyone has their first date and the object is to hide your flaws. And then you’re in a relationship and it’s all about hiding your disappointment. And then once you’re married, it’s about hiding your sins.

(Don't tell the Catholic church).

The Big Gay Rule Book

Being gay is confusing and tough. When you first sashay out of the closet, blinded by the bright pink light, you stumble around excited and confused, tripping over the etiquettes and rituals that are so ingrained in the Gayverse. Just think how handy it would have been if your outing had come with a manual; a guide about how to function in the glittering maze of trials and tribulations that is the gay community. In an uncharacteristic burst of empathy I decided to put together a list of seven simple rules for any gay neophyte to follow, which will assist on the path to fully-fledged homosexual.

Rule No1:

Whenever you are dancing in a gay club you must mime every word to the song and physically act out the lyrics with your hands and feet. It is the law. It’s also essential that you try and out-do the person boogieing next to you and actively mock any one that doesn’t display absolutely perfect rhythm. If you have memorised the dance routine to a song then by all means utilise it, unless it is to Beyoncé’s Single Ladies, this is not acceptable. Upon your third hour in the club, you must migrate to the stage so people can watch you dance, perhaps removing an item of clothing for maximum attention. It is very important to stake your claim to a spot on the stage, as someone with bigger muscles and an even bigger ego is primed and ready to take your place.

Rule No2:

Whatever you do, you must sleep with all of your gay friends (except the ugly ones). By and large the gay community is a big incestuous pool of fluid swapping and I guarantee that within every social circle at least four of them have seen each other’s penises, if not touched them. With their mouths. This may seem like a shocking statistic but it is an efficient and effective way of meeting new friends. Once any sexual frisson between two people has been expunged from their system (pun intended), they can then focus on building a solid friendship. (WARNING: This method has a high risk of misinterpretation of feelings see Rule No3). If you are not intimate with a friend with whom you have a mutual attraction straight away, it could lead to a drunken fumble years down the line, which puts the very fabric of the friendship in danger. Alternatively, you could show some will power and restraint.

Rule No3:

Never fall in love with your friends, as it can only lead to pain and awkwardness. It can be very easy as a gay man to misinterpret the feelings of friendship with those of love. It has happened to the best of us. You spend every day with someone, share your most intimate secrets, laugh together, cry together, shop together, drink together. Then one day your friend will flash you a smile and you get a warm tingly feeling in the pit of your stomach (and somewhere south of your stomach). You start to look at him in a different way and feelings start to grow alongside a burgeoning obsession. Then every time he talks about another boy or kisses one in a club you die a little inside and a psychosis starts to take hold. Suddenly you decide that he doesn’t give you enough attention and you start to get more and more possessive of his time. Obviously he notices this and begins to distance himself from your increasingly unhinged ways and this is when you break. You call him crying to confess your undying love and pledge to be with him forever, an offer he politely and rightly rebuffs. You are then left as a broken shell of the man you once were, emotionally frayed, alone and minus one good friend.

Rule No4: 

Openly show disdain for sex-hunting apps such as Grindr, whilst secretly having it on your phone. Hypocrisy about sex is vital for a young gay man. You must publicly state you hate promiscuity and one night stands and that you are looking for something long-term and meaningful. While this is your public facade, privately you must use Grindr to boff as many men as you can in the local area. This double standard powers the gay community, however when posting a photo on these sites remember to not show your face initially. A shot of your torso must be used or a full-length picture with a phone obscuring your face to ensure anonymity.

Rule No5:

Fall into a deep and committed relationship within your first year of being an ‘out’ gay man, telling everyone with ears that he is ‘The One’, before cheating on him five weeks later because you’re ‘bored’. This will ensure that the now ex-boyfriend will never speak to you again and that he will do anything in his power to tarnish your once good name. For optimum effect, make sure that you were publicly ‘In a relationship’ on a social networking site, so when this changes to ‘single’ you have to explain to each and every one of your friends what an awful bastard you have been.

Rule No6:

Frantically obsess over your body image, whether this means going to the gym every day or closely monitoring your daily calorie intake. Unless you suffer at least a mild form of body dysmorphia or carbphobia, then you will never truly be accepted into the gay fold. Homosexuals have absolutely no time for men who are comfortable in their own skin and it will not be tolerated.

Rule No7:

Listen up boys because this rule is genuinely serious. Whatever you do or whomever you do, always get tested for STIs and HIV regularly. If you are sexually active, it’s your duty as a good gay man to ensure you are healthy and that your partner(s) also remain so. GUM clinics, as scary as they may sound, are harmless, friendly non-threatening places that treat you without judgement. Go online and locate your nearest centre and keep it in your phonebook. P.S. This means you should always use a condom. Condoms are cool.

The Big Gay Gym Rule Book

In the beginning, some time after the Big Bang, once the dinosaurs had met their extinction and man began to walk the surface of the planet, societies were formed and towns and cities were built. As the human race took its first steps towards the creation of empires and vast civilisations, a group of clandestine bearded elders of the earth met in the deepest black of night to sign a secret mystical oath which would decide the destiny of one particular sub-section of humanity. Upon the ancient scroll these words were inscribed (this is only a rough translation from the original text): “If a man lies with another man as one lies with a woman, he must join a gym.”

Bastards.

There you have it, due to the magical mystical oath thing (that I certainly didn’t make up), homosexuals everywhere are now driven by a supernatural force to go to the gym even if they don’t really want or need to, unable to ignore the ancient imperative in their head to become treadmill-pounding body fascists. Despite our preternatural urge to work-out, gyms can still be terrifying institutions to a novice, especially as a gay man. Luckily for you, I have assembled a brief list of gym ‘Dos’ and ‘Don’ts’ for those taking their first timid steps into a weights room (this guide can also serve as a quick refresher course for even the most ardent fitness fanatic):

DO make sure that you ensnare yourself a cross-trainer or treadmill that is situated in the direct eyeline of the men’s changing rooms, in order to fully assess the level of attractive men that are currently in the gym. This practice will also allow the time spent doing soul-sucking cardio to pass more quickly.

DON’T hire a hot personal trainer. You will spend the duration of a personal training session as a sweaty, panting, exhausted and uncoordinated mess. Is this how you want the muscled, tanned, well-groomed probably Brazilian or Italian PT to see you? No. Instead employ the services of the balding, pale, slightly chubby PT that is clearly past his prime (every gym has one), unless that’s your type. In that case hire a woman.

DO make audible, ridiculous grunting sounds as you lift weights, as that way people around you will know that you are working really hard. Forget about the fact that you will sound like a tennis player getting a rectal exam from a poorly-trained circus monkey with an ice-pick; you are lifting heavy weights and EVERYONE must know that you are, otherwise what’s the point?

DON’T allow people to lay claim to more than one piece of gym equipment at a time, particularly during busy periods. It is common practice for some regular gym-goers to dominate the entire weights area as if it’s their own living room filled with gym equipment, with towels strewn over the bench press as some sort of ‘Reserved’ sign and dumbbells left hidden in the corner as if to ay ‘Do Not Touch’. Remember that, despite being bigger than you and more superior in every way, these people are bastards and you should not be intimidated by them. Strut purposefully up to these muscle bags, look them directly in the eye and say, “Could I *cough*…I mean would you mind if…umm…can I borrow the weights? No? Oh….erm OK. Sorry to bother you. Sir.”

DO wipe down the gym equipment after you have used it. No one wants to bathe in your sweat and musk or slip from the treadmill because of the makeshift waterslide you created from your sudoriferous glands. On a similar note, please wear deodorant. A really strong one. Gym-goers should be seen and not smelt.

DON’T have sex in the sauna after your workout. It’s tacky and people should be able to sit in there without the danger of slipping over on your semen. As an alternative I suggest copulating in the shower. It’s cleaner and all evidence from your penis will be washed away down the drain.

DO maintain prolonged eye contact with any men that you find attractive, at least until the point it becomes obvious and awkward. Once you have made the recipient of your steadfast gaze deeply uncomfortable, sheepishly look away and then look back in that general direction and pretend you were focusing on something else, such as the clock behind him. If direct ocular contact seems too intimidating, utilise one of the many mirrors in the gym to ogle indirectly.

DON’T wear short shorts. No one wants to see that. NO ONE.

DO take a full length photograph of yourself in the mirror using a mobile phone after your workout. The picture in question must be shirtless and be lit from above, with your face obscured slightly by the handset. The image must then be posted on one of your many social networking profiles for everyone to look at, admire and think what a total narcissistic prick you are.

Glove (Gay Love)

Having spent the last few weeks suffering from a severe case of writer’s block (which is really just shorthand for a severe lack of any original ideas because the writer in question is a talentless waste of organs) and with writing a weekly X Factor column melting my brain into a reality TV fondue, I asked my friends to come up with an idea for a new blog post before I gave up on this thing altogether. Unfortunately, I only received one response and that response was ‘love’.

They are either in love or dead.

We can all agree that ‘love’ is a stupid subject for a blog, especially for a writer who has only a passing acquaintance with real emotion. Apparently cynicism isn’t an emotion. I informed the nominator of the subject that I had already penned a relationship guide (which you can find here priced at only £0.00: https://musingsofapessimist.wordpress.com/2012/03/23/the-good-relationship-guide/) but he thought that it only focused on the negative aspects of coupledom and didn’t really address the holdinghandswalkingalongthebeachunderthemoonlight aspects of love. The kind of love we all aspire to, mainly due to the inordinate amount of romantic comedies and weekday soaps we have consumed greedily with our lonely eyeballs.

I suppose the question that automatically crops up when cross-referencing this subject with homosexuality, is can gays love as well or as deeply as the heterosexuals? This is obviously a stupid bloody question because as human beings we all have the capacity for love. So I will amend the question: Given the ‘non-traditional’ nature of a homosexual relationship, can gay men claim to love as deeply as their straight counterparts?

The answer? YES. And here is why.

Despite some of the ‘odd’ arrangements some gay couples have (open relationships for example) these love matches seem to have considerable endurance. While many would think that shagging about on the side could lead to the destruction of a relationship (which isn’t to say it doesn’t in some cases), these ‘open’ love bonds are strong enough to weather the spunk storm of extra-marital boning. Take long-term gay relationships which aren’t held together by the traditional ties of marriage and children. The love of these couples is so deep that they are willing to devote the rest of their lives together, sometimes with no official legal documentation forcing them to do so. It’s just them, forever. Just the two of them until they die. Every waking minute spent together. Forever (sorry, the paralysing fear of an eternal coupling overcame me. Back to the blog…). As a breed, gays are generally stereotyped as promiscuous little bumming monkeys (I say stereotype, it’s more a fact-based exaggeration) however I would like to present to you the example set by my friend (*terrible pseudonym klaxon*) Bryan.

My dear friend Bryan is a Canadian by trade and came to these shores to steal our jobs start a new life. Unfortunately upon setting up shop in London, he realised he deeply loved someone that he had left behind back at the homestead. With an ocean between them, it looked as if Bryan would be alone in this big city of ours but the love was too strong and they decided to make a go of it. His boyfriend, who shall be called Bobert, made the enormous decision to pack his bags and join Bryan in London to take advantage of our healthcare and benefits systems. As close as they may be to finally reuniting, work obligations has made it so Bobert will not be gracing the capital with his presence until next year and Bryan will be on his own for more agonising lonely months. Now, Bryan is a being of pure animal sexuality and living in London and spending the majority of his time in Soho, he is basically exposed to an all-you-can-fuck buffet on a daily basis. Despite temptation throwing itself at his penis, Bryan remains unfazed and committed to his Canadian partner and is the epitome of how real love can transcend the clichés and trappings of a person’s sexuality. Applaud him as he sits and waits frustrated and horny (but very very happy) for Bobert to arrive.

Most importantly of all, dear reader, I love YOU. Except you. You’re ugly.

The Cast List

It could be due to the fact that I watch far too much television, but lately I think my social life has begun to strongly resemble the structure of a TV show. Recently I haven’t been as heavily involved in the social antics of my regular circle of friends, as I’ve genuinely (and unfortunately) been busy with other things through no real fault of my own. I was given my own spin-off from the main programme if you will, a series that focused on my attempts to make it as a writer in the big city and that looked at the my relationship with a sexy, French twenty-something. Let’s just say the spin-off was little watched and while it had a small and dedicated cult following, a second season wasn’t commissioned. Instead it was scaled back to a collection of lower budget webisodes (A brief warning: I’m going to continue with this analogy throughout the entire blog, so if you’re not a fan, I would bow out now).

Do you know how hard it was to find a picture relating to this post? So here is a cute kitten in a 'cast'. Get it?

Having been written out of the original show as a series regular for a brief time, they had to recast. Unfortunately for me, the new cast members were funnier, better looking and far more popular than I had ever been. With the spin-off taking up less of my time and with my original contract still valid, they decided to bring me back to main series. As with any popular returning character, my comeback, although a ratings hit, was ultimately a bit of an anti-climax. I had a lacklustre script and my character didn’t quite gel with the new ones. The show had evolved and the storylines had moved on. All I was doing was pissing on the legacy of my once glorious character.

Instead of being a regular, I was now scaled back to a recurring role. No longer central to the ‘A’ storyline, I could be brought back when a particular scene required me or to tie-up outstanding plot threads.

INTERLUDE

This may seem like a muddled mess of words, so just let me clarify certain parts of the analogy:

Main show / programme = Social life.

Spin-off = My life.

Cast members = Friends.

Plot / storyline = Stuff my friends get up to.

Series regular = Part of the main group of friends.

Recurring role = Seeing friends occasionally.

Guest star = Seeing friends two / three times a year.

Got it? Good.

END INTERLUDE

 

My central  concern now is that I will eventually be downgraded to guest star and brought back only once a year for Christmas specials and wedding/funeral episodes. This is a very real possibility, as my current contribution to the storyline is minimal. I generally have the worst lines and when the script does require me to be in front of the cameras, it’s usually for expositional purposes only. Frankly, most of the time I may as well be a background extra, bumbling around the scenery to fill space in pub and club scenes.

I should be clear that I have loved my time on the show and I in no way blame my fellow cast mates or the producers for my current predicament. This is purely a situation of my own creation. Now all I can do is either pray that they don’t decide to kill me off (unfortunately it’s not a supernatural drama) or try and bag a movie deal. I just hope that I don’t land a dream job in Paris or decide to go on tour with my band. There’s no coming back from that.

I would like to thank you for sticking with this blog post as I stretched the metaphor to breaking point. It was probably as painful to read as it was to write.