Gay Twitter: Should We Be Exclusive?

What is it about that phrase "apply for membership" that is simultaneously repugnant and intriguing? It's like my personality splits instantly; one half goes "urgh" and walks away, the other is halfway through typing an application form detailing why it is I would be great for this club and frantically trying to find 'cool' photos to upload to Instagram.

But those clubs make money from being exclusive; “Gay Twitter™", however, does and should not.

So why, oh why, are gays still trying to siphon themselves off from the rest of life? Why do people include an ACTUAL TRADEMARK after 'Gay Twitter'? These are all questions I ask myself as I scroll through my Twitter feed each morning.
Still, my issue isn’t with the idea of the name ‘Gay Twitter’ itself; that’s just the title for a demographic of Twitter users, really. My issue is with some of the influential members of ‘Gay Twitter’ and the damage I feel they’re doing to what we strive to keep an open, encompassing community.

Looking for inspiration, guidance and I'll be honest some networking opportunities, I started following a few of the editors, sub-editors, contributors etc of certain successful flagship LGBT+ publications on Twitter. While I was expecting to be inspired as a wannabe-editor, I’m continually disappointed by what I can see is just one big clique. “Unfollow them!” you say? Why? I’d have nothing to write about.

I watch these intelligent, prominent writers spend all day @ing each other in tweets; usually about an in joke and/or anal sex. And when their followers try to chime in? Oh, don’t expect a response unless you’re someone they have/want to/are going to shag. Didn't we grow out of that somewhere after GCSEs? Haven't we gays all had enough of feeling left out of a social group when we were at school?

What upsets me the most is that some of these are the people running the publications that I looked up to when I was desperate to get out of small town life and be one of them. For example, Gay Times has a print readership of 170,000 people; 869,411 web page views and a social media following of 13,348,700 people. In total, their reach is two million!* That's two million people in their sphere of influence that they’re either peacocking in front of or ignoring completely.


Now don’t get me wrong, the beauty of Twitter is that it’s an unfiltered stream of consciousness and it’s your own personal account but they cannot deny that they're in the public eye (hello? You have a big blue tick next to your handle!) These guys are writers after all; write something that young gays will look up to! When there's so much out there with the potential to damage young minds and yet even more channels for them to reach out through, how about show the next generation how to be dignified LGBT+ people by tweeting something that doesn't involve you being a bitch? How about using your high profile for charitable good, or to highlight issues from the community? I'd love to hear a voice that isn't just cynicism and sycophantism.

The private members’ clubs I get: being exclusive is literally their business, it's in the title. But 'Gay Twitter' needs a wakeup call: engage, inspire, broaden some knowledge - because the elitism is hurtful.

While I'm at it, dear publishing Lords, give me a man topless on the cover of a gay lifestyle magazine who doesn't have abs! But that rant is for another day when I haven’t eaten a Five Guys straight after the gym.



*Gay Times Publishers Statement July 2015

Mortified!

Mortified Live; London Saturday, 22nd July 2017 Leicester Square Theatre

https://getmortified.com/live/

Like most of us, my teenage years can be reddening to recount.

I started watching Sex and the City at age 13 and wanted to be Carrie Bradshaw so much that I spent most of my remaining teens casually slipping her pearls of wisdom into conversation, thinking it made me sound smart and worldly to tell my fellow classmates that "men are like cabs" or that "sometimes a woman really does need to be rescued"

And like many others, I kept diaries. Hilarious, pathetic, Carrie Bradshaw inspired capsules of my most cringe-worthy thoughts and feelings, chronicling the trauma of M.I.A classmates; "Josh hasn't been in school for three days...I hope he's not dead!", or the eternal support I had for my friends; "omg Lily dumped Matt and he's just wandering around crying... But luckily me and Abi are SO strong."

Luckily, I am yet to share those with an audience on a Saturday night in Leicester Square (watch this space) however props to the six hilarious women we witnessed do so as part of Mortified.

I'm not going to attempt to review this brilliant piece of theatre because it's just too funny to try to sell. Watch the documentary on Netflix (Mortified Nation) then imagine crying with laughter seeing it live on stage with a beer in hand; you'll get the jist.

At the interval, we were told the London "chapter" of Mortified were running a competition. Tell them your most embarrassing teenage anecdote and you can win tickets to their next show. And so I shared...

For once this isn't a lamentation on my "colourful" school days. This is, in lieu of standing on a stage, my catharsis. You know... behind a keyboard... the cowardly way.

Year 10 Sports day at Tunbridge Wells Grammar School for Boys.

Dreaded, dreaded sports day.

As it was the last mandatory year to take part, we all ended up getting assigned competitions. Never one for sports, or girls, or anything else that would equal conformity in an all-boys school, the whole day filled me with fear.

My assigned competition: the 400m. Just once around the track. Unfortunately I was stationed on the inside lane - thus at the back of the race - and though I knew the lanes were all the same length, I automatically felt paranoid that I would finish last! Worst.Outcome.Ever.

So off I sprinted, not caring where I ended up just determined not to be at the end so that I can avoid further torment! A little while into running as fast as I possibly could, I took the opportunity to make the fatal mistake of having a little glance around me...to see the rest of the race at least 150m behind! Spurred on by the crowds, that one blue Powerade I had for breakfast and my own tragic desperation for this to be the thing that finally made me cool, I upped the ante and full on legged it towards the finish line.

100m from the end, that beautiful white line in sight, teachers shouting "he's breaking the school record!" over the tannoy, that one friend I had feeling proud by association for once, thoughts of proudly going home to tell my family of my success... Then my vision started going a little funny. And by funny I mean black.

75m away and my legs started to turn nice and jellified. My eyes started prickling.

50m from the finish line I started to stumble. And then, like a tragic, desperate Bambi, my legs completely gave way and just short of the finish line, in front the entire boys school, I passed clean out.

Cue: being carried off the field by a teacher, hysterical laughter from the audience and another year of humiliation; including one charming teenager turning the lockers into a pop-up photo gallery that boasted only repetitions of the various stages of me on my way down to the ground as I fainted on the sports field.

Ah, to be young again.

Drunk Review No1: Naked Boys Reading

Naked Boys Reading: The Moribund 4th Birthday Spectacular!

Thursday, 29th September 2016
Ace Hotel's Miranda Bar
http://nakedboysreading.com/events/

Naked Boys Reading was the funniest show I’ve ever seen.

There’s your headline and I could probably end this here.

What I had expected to be smutty, silly and awkward was in fact a slick, smart and incredibly well curated piece of performance art. I mean, it was also SO smutty, silly and awkward.

Let’s rewind.

A few years ago, I saw an advert for Naked Boys Reading as part of the Manchester Pride Fringe line up. Though my friendship circle was the gayest around we were also the laziest and so slammed shut the window of opportunity to see the marriage of my two favourite things: penises and literature.

Thankfully, 2016 is our year of “see it, do it” so when we saw Naked Boys Reading: 4^th Birthday advertised in Attitude, my finger was on the enter button. All puns intended.

Now is the time to introduce the host, my new favourite queen. Embodying all that drag has evolved into, Dr Sharon Husbands (think Carrie Bradshaw Season 5 with a beard) manoeuvred us through the show with the kind of dry sass and jaw-aching humour that make you feel gutted to leave the building without a signed contract for her to curate your life. I was also impressed to hear right away that she co-created this show herself; this isn’t just a string of readings from naked guys that you should ogle at, this has been researched, devised, attended to, and that makes it all the more genius.

My personal highlights:

The very first reader. The virgin experience. Scottish, attractive, Scottish (…know what I mean?) and a great orator. The perfect “oh my God where do I look? Am I allowed to look at it?” opening. His chosen work was Charlotte Perkins’ The Yellow Wallpaper, the extract from which was heart-breaking, if a little long.

The surprise vagina visit. Apparently infamous, eastern-European lesbian friend of the family, Bica, strode onto the stage to declare that “cunt is better. European cunt is even better” and read from James St James’ Disco Bloodbath. The movie Party Monster bored me before it ever really got going but this re-enactment of an after party spiralling into a desperate search for “that secretly stashed gram I’m certain we never finished last time” was delivered so on the mark that most of the audience was hiding their head in shame.

Alfie Ordinary: a naked man in full little-boy-doll make up. Terrifying, right? Not when you throw in a Whitney Houston puppet, a Whitney Houston medley, Diane Sawyer interviews Whitney Houston sound clips and a fuck tonne of confetti. I don’t feel qualified to put this into enough words for you to “get it” but I ask that you look up Alfie Ordinary. You shan’t regret.

Lastly, props to the final guy. Who’d have thought that providing a dramatic reading of Kate Bush’s ‘Wuthering Heights’ off your phone could be so funny? Okay I could probably have imagined already but this guy delivered.

We missed the boat on the next show (it was a river cruise, lol) but I’m determined to make this a regular feature in my life.

Also we were both hit on, as a couple. Great story for next time.

Soundbite summary: penises; Carrie Bradshaw; Whitney Houston; Kate Bush; Cocaine; funny lesbian; penises

The Ultimate Disappointment

The following is a rant I wrote for my funniest writer friend, Imogen, who asked me to guest star (that's right, I said guest star) on her blog, http://imogenthinksalot.blogspot.co.uk

Thank you to Imogen for the content prompt; of all the titles she gave me I, of course, chose the one that sounded the most bitter. Enjoy, share, roll your eyes, whatever.

It is the ultimate disappointment to log on to LinkedIn and find the idiots you went to school with are now financiers in The City earning about triple your salary. Or to log in to Facebook to see gloriously tanned “friends” jet-setting around the world getting paid to write, or do PR, or work on TV shows. Or the fellow dancers that you trained with who are now gorgeous and muscled and have long since surpassed you in talent, now treading the board in West End theatres or filming music videos in the desert.

It is the ultimate disappointment to find that you're such a jealous person. The ultimate disappointment is to be disappointed in yourself.

Me? I wanted to be a choreographer or a male Carrie Bradshaw writing for Gay Times. Instead, I work in a firmly uncreative job but for a company I love, in a buzzing office where I've made some great friends and have some real opportunities ahead of me. And yet every day, while glaring at my Excel spreadsheets, I curse myself that I'm not the next Hofesh Shechter or hopping out of my apartment with a leather satchel on my way to writing a tell-all piece on being a fabulous 20-something homosexual.

Were my dreams unrealistic? Perhaps, a little. But do I still regret some of the choices that led me here instead of there? Definitely.

I look to my left and see friends buying houses, while I stare at my Natwest app and weep a little. I look to my right and see friends dancing away at LA festivals, or wandering around European cities and wonder how the hell they afforded their plane ticket. I look on Instagram and see previously podgy friends now rocking great arms and a six pack (that one sucks a lot). I look at myself and think…James you're doing none of that. You're just floundering.

And this is the curse of your 20s. Trapped between “I should grow up and start saving for future me” and “fuck this I'm young, I don't want to look back on my youth and think I wasted it!” Continual questions flood my already over-processing mind. Questions such as: Should I pack it all in, think about a grown up job sometime in the future, and run off to do the tour around America I’m desperate for? Or do I stick at the career, work my way up, get on the property ladder and just try to make an effort to do more interesting things with my weekends? Should I completely push my style boundaries and wear some on-trend outfits that turn heads? Or do I stick with what I know because I look good in it? Should I be taking more photos to document every move I make? Or do I stick in this weird middle ground where I half-heartedly hashtag my photos with #instagay so that I get ten more likes, for a purpose that I’m still not quite sure of? In this do-it-put-it-on-Facebook world, where it’s absolutely common and acceptable to see the woman next to you at the hairdressers take a selfie of her hair being shampooed (I mean genuinely who gives a shit?), it’s hard to shake the feeling that you’re not keeping up, despite the fact that many people reading this will be nodding their heads in agreement.

I will always be grateful for the ability to make friends easily, where others wallow in social awkwardness. I will always be appreciative of having a good education (should I choose to use it one day) where others struggle with words. I will always be comforted by my many siblings and that I get along with them all so well, where others wonder how they even share the same gene pool as theirs. I will certainly look around me and be thankful for my lot…but if all you tanned, successful, well-travelled, creative friends could fuck off and live your fabulous lives away from The Gram, that would be great. Ta.

How to Win a Sample Sale War

With my crotch pressed firmly against an HR Advisor’s backside, the screams of pent up frustration filling the air and a plethora of arms and legs flying at each other in rage, I grab blindly at anything I can see and wonder if there isn't a more intense moment in life than this. But this isn’t a scene from an even more poorly written Mr Grey story. This is real life. This is a real war. This is a sample sale.

Remember the episode in Friends where the girls go to the wedding dress sample sale? Well when I say sample sale you may be thinking of that. But you’d be wrong. For starters, there’s only one fight. And how hilarious to think you can approach a sample sale with a method; if they tried that shit with one of ours I’d be like, “Monica, babes, save your breath, save your energy. Ain’t nobody got time for whistles”

Should you be facing your first sample sale, be it work or a high street store, take note of the below and you’ll be the Napoleon of 50p bargain hunts in no time. See you in there!

Except you won't see me in there because if I lose a tug of war over a Moleskin diary due to your insistence on waving at me, shit will go down.

“There’s no I in team. We can do it if we stick together!”
HA! NO. IT’S EVERY MAN, WOMAN AND CHILD FOR THEMSELVES. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO TALK TO YOUR FRIEND MIDWAY OR I WILL THROW YOU OVER THE NEAREST BOX OF CHRISTMAS CARDS.

“Dignity, always dignity”
What the fuck is dignity? This is no time for pride! This is no time to worry about what you look like to your colleagues! You start worrying about that and the nearest lurker will swoop on that nice pair of mis-matching Brogues you’re taking an age to mull over. Don’t bother doing your hair that day. It’s going to get ripped out anyway.

“Take your time; slow and steady wins the race”
Nope. It’s a smash and grab situation here, people. Take everything your arms can carry, hook a few dresses over your forearm and then get a friend to pile on some more. Think less “Victoria Beckham takes Harper for casual stroll through Burberry” and more “Mother of six goes nuts in an Asda Black Friday price slash” Once you’ve picked up everything that remotely caught your eye, take yourself off to a corner and rummage through your hoard like Golem.  Feeling like a monster? See above.

“You never know if you never try”
Listen, I once witnessed a grown man cowering in the corner of a photography room with his eyes darting about wildly as he wondered how the hell he was going to get out from underneath the mass of clothes that had been vetoed in a cull. Okay, I’ll admit, I only noticed him because I realised my “no” pile had grown two shaking arms and a pair of teary eyes but my point is that if you don’t think you can handle it; do everyone a favour and take that “never try” option. Some of us rely on this for extra cardio.

“Less is more”

Oh don’t be ridiculous, no it is not. If somebody offered you a wheelbarrow full of cash you wouldn’t say “oh no, knock a couple of grand off so I don’t look as needy” You’re paying 50p for a pair of shoes; £1 for a jacket currently sat on a shop floor at £39.99; you’re paying 2p for a pink phone case with a cat wearing sunglasses! Somebody’s going to want that! Of course you can pull off a size XL tweed blazer, just wear it “oversized” around the Northern Quarter or Shoreditch and you’ll be serving 80s realness for days! You’re set for shit-but-pricey presents until the end of the year so just throw the lot in a bag and sort it out when you get home. Don’t be selfish: there’s folks living on the street out there who would kill for a glittery Jesus money box and yes, I genuinely bought that.

Interim: A Reflection on London

Celebrities I’ve thought I’ve seen since moving to London:
- Thierry Henry crossing the road outside ‘Bend it Like Beckham The Musical’
- Jennifer Lawrence outside TCR tube station, sporting robot-from-the-future sunglasses and gym leggings
- Daenerys Targaryen walking up Charing Cross Road. (Not Emilia Clarke; actual Daenerys)
- A fat Ed Sheeran drinking with friends outside a pub in Soho.


Celebrities I’ve actually seen since moving to London:
- Angelina Jolie shopping in Paperchase. Freak.Out
- MORIARTY! He looked into my soul with sad, hungover eyes.
- The bitch from My Mad Fat Diary/home wrecker in Dr Foster

Celebrities I may have seen since moving to London:
- Nick Grimshaw. Apparently he was in the general vicinity of Greek Street the night I was falling out of Be At One and straight into a lamppost on my way home. He might have seen me so that counts.

Fascinating homeless people I’ve experienced in London:
- A man (still uncertain on actual homelessness) lying face down next to a pedestrian crossing clutching a glossy brown wig.
- A busker holding a saxophone but making the noises himself, acapella style, rather than actually knowing how to play.
- Three young men singing a selection of west end hits outside The Commitments (again, still unsure of homelessness vs open-air audition)
- A Jamaican man serenading an alfresco diner with a mega mix of Waiting in Vain, Caribbean Queen and Day-O outside a café on Charlotte Street.

Places I’ve nearly been mowed down by a taxi in London:
- Tottenham Court Road, Leicester Square, Charing Cross Station, The Strand, Old Compton Street, halfway down Kings Road whilst listening to the Made in Chelsea theme tune and pretending to be in Made in Chelsea.

Moments of uninhibited, uncontrollable tourist-induced street rage:
- Infinite. Ongoing. Continual

Number of times I’ve been smiling with excitement then inhaled, through the mouth, the stomach churning, rancid stench of stale tramp piss:
- See above

Asking for it...?

Picture this: I'm standing in a field so vast, with storm clouds so heavy, that I look like I'm in the Deep South. I’m trying in vain to find somewhere to sit out of the rain whilst listening to a friend regale me with stories of her upcoming fashion show and watching a bat circle my head like a teeny tiny vulture. Never before have I felt such a contrast of old life vs new life. Country vs city. Which feels weird considering six years ago it was the other way around. With this new move to my home town (living with the parents, working in London) come the memories I have of living in it. That and the fact that my brother has now started at the same school where some of the strongest of memories were created in.

I’m often attributed with confidence by those closest to me - and quite often people I’ve just met – because regardless of any words being spoken in my direction, hell regardless of any eye contact, I'll get my way into any conversation I’m otherwise sat on the edge of, instead of feeling quietly awkward and starting to sweat at the thought of blank stares as responses. Why? Not just because of a childhood spent in dance classes but because I refuse to be stay silent again (I know, I'm so Angela Bassett in 'What's Love Got to Do With It?') For those closest to me I’m sure the idea of me being quiet is absolutely alien but in my school days I would often be crowded around by a group of boys, on the bus or in the playground, being asked simply to speak just so they could all laugh at my voice. It’s difficult to admit, because I hate the thought that those reading this will think I’m fishing for sympathy, but by Year 9 I was openly carrying a pair of scissor with me to school – not even so that I could self harm, just as an attempt for the bullies to think I was and maybe leave me alone! Sadly I don’t think this ever did actually work.

As more female celebrities are pictured topless and baring the slogan “still not asking for it” in an attempt to change minds about the rationalising of rape, I think about the many times I’ve told a story of my behaviour in school and been met with the same line. In no way am I comparing my experience to the horror of being raped but it's interesting that “well then you were just asking for it!” statement can be found as a blanket line to cover all strains of inexcusable human behaviour. “My friend and I used to run around the picnic benches playing Desperate Housewives” “Oh, no wonder you were bullied!”

Apparently, in primary school this time, I would come home complaining that I was stood in a playground surrounded by a group of boys taking it in turns to hit me. I have no recollection of this but it might explain why as an adult the idea of playing piggy in the middle is anything but scary although, of course, in an entirely different and less appropriate context. Jokes aside, exactly what at the age of ten was I supposed to have done to “deserve” that?

Having said this, I find myself remembering all the times I’ve uttered those words myself. Even whilst going through bullying I found I looked at all the school "losers" - after all, I wasn't a loser I was just camp. At least I was popular with some people and that's all that counts, right? - and thinking God why don't you just stop being weird and people will leave you alone? Why don't you just sit in silence and ignore them instead of going crazy and screaming at them, giving them what they want? Even I, at the height of being tormented for not fitting the mould, continually judged those who didn't know how to "control" the bullies. And I’ll admit that it still goes through my mind today; a classic example of the bullied turning to bullies (I’m sure a lot of people reading this will know how nasty I can sometimes be about those I, hands up, perceive to be weaker)

My favourite book to rabbit on about is The Chimp Paradox by Steve Peters because it talks with such depth about the darker sides of human nature that we’d rather pretend are reserved for sociopaths; like our DNA-led instinct to freeze out anyone who doesn’t fit into our pack. After all, we pack together for protection so anyone who doesn’t fit out pack is naturally a threat. Or, moreover,
the rest of the pack doesn’t want them around so we must weed out the weak in order to survive. All too often we can see this in the behaviour of young children who haven’t yet had social decencies embedded into them and so, to a degree, I forgive the morons who were nasty at a young age. But I don’t forgive the ones who grew up to know better and would still today peddle the same excuse; “well you were kind of asking for it”

Last month Gay Times featured an openly gay man named Riyadh who confronted his school bully on the phone (link here: http://ow.ly/SOyhD) and the bully's response was “I think If you’d pulled me aside I wouldn’t have kept going at you. I obviously couldn’t stop everyone else from doing it. It’s secondary school. You just have to take it on the chin.” Horrifyingly this is something I have told myself countless times, you have to take it on the chin, but something that I will no longer accept. One of my own worst bullies - once I had officially come out been outed - approached me one day to ask if I was "really gay"; fearing the worst I simply sighed and told him I was. To my surprise, and still puzzlement, he just said "oh okay. That's alright you know. I only took the piss out of you before because I thought you were a camp straight guy so you had it coming to you" Er…what?!
And so, two pages and a lot of rambling in,, you may be asking exactly what the tone of this post is. Me too. I’m still not sure but I do know that after the weeks it’s taken me to write this post, after the self-obsessed soul searching, the late night “wont everyone just think I’m whining to get sympathy? Hasn’t everyone gone through this?”, I find myself taking a vow to ban “they were asking for it” from my terminology. No matter how ugly their shoes are; no matter how many guys that girl went home with; doesn’t matter if that kid screams and pulls out his own hair just at the chant of his own name. They’re not asking for it. Nobody asks for that kind of torment at such a young age ever. Nobody asks for that judgement on their “poor choices”. Human nature is no excuse because, though I may have risen from the ashes like a feisty gay phoenix, sadly the 52% of young LGBTQ people who’ve sought help for self-harm may not have. Sadly the 44% of young LGBTQ who’ve contemplated suicide may not have either*. And tragically the many more young LGBTQ people who choose to end their lives never will. Contrary to popular belief it is not now “okay” for LGBTQ children in school these days; it’s a much happier place for many I’m sure. But we’re certainly a long way from home.

To conclude, 12 years on, along with my new vow I find myself asking what advice I would give to 13 year old me trying to lower his voice to sound more manly, trying desperately to resist the urge to chant "don't-make-me-click-in-a-z-formation" and waking up each day with one singular mission: today I must act like a boy. Well it’s “ Fuck 'em”. Don't keep quiet to stop them noticing you; don't stare furiously at your text book as a pikey twat has a fifteen minute argument with the science teacher because he refuses to sit next to you; don't hurry to your desk when you're faced with sick noises as you walk into a classroom; don’t stand for it when other boys dunk a foam football in a muddy puddle and then throw it square into your face. Put your ballet shoes on, whack out a triple pirouette and kick them in their ugly, chavvy gobs... And then click in a Z formation, ok?


*Figures according to LGBT charity Metro, based on a survey of 7000 16 to 24 year olds