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

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

"Tattu, and you?"

It’s a special occasion, you’re sexy twenty-something city dwellers and you want to earn bragging rights on Instagram…where do you go? To a trendy new bar with an ominous name and a website loaded with sophisticatedly dark interior shots, of course.

Though I walk through Spinningfields almost every day of the week I could not for the life of me remember seeing this “new fancy Chinese restaurant” anywhere. Ten minutes after strolling past The Oast House three times, and with Google Maps in hand, I was still none-the-wiser and the bottle of Prosecco we'd downed just before leaving refused to do anything other than add to the fog. Ged (birthday boy, partner in life and crime --->) was just on the edge of deciding that I'd fabricated the entire existence of this place when we spotted two burly bouncers hovering outside what looked like an entirely black glass wall at the very edge of Hardman Square. We approached with nervous caution and only when said bouncers pulled apart a galleon ship's wheel to usher us into a very dark foyer did we realise just how intimate an affair this was going to be. 

On first impression I was confused at how small the building was but was simultaneously distracted by the giant anchors, draped in flowers, hanging down from the roof and realised there’s a second floor. “This is the kind of joint that I need to be seen wandering through with a cocktail”, I thought. Said cocktails were not only reasonably priced at £7 - £10 (considering you could walk into any number of overpriced Canal Street bar and expect to be charged £7.50 for syrup-in-a-glass-masquerading-as-a-Mojito) they were abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous. I ordered a "Bambu - Baby Panda" and was treated to the cutest glass you've ever seen in your life. The restraint I had to muster just to hand it back to the waitress when I was done surely warrants a free meal. Or at the very least a free bamboo straw. As for the cocktail itself, I can only really remember it noting vanilla vodka as an ingredient but I'm pretty certain it was the spirit of life in liquid form, no joke. And the spirit of life tasted gooood. Ged ordered something with rum, I think, but who cares because he didn’t get a panda glass.

Being lead upstairs felt akin to be whisked away to a secret society; the narrow staircase was carved from dark wood and delicately lit by small lotus flowers cut out of the steps that tied in nicely with the great big blossom tree that stood proudly in the middle of the restaurant floor when we arrived at the top. It was pretty breath-taking to be honest. Once we’d taken our seats we were handed the two glasses of what I presume was sparkling rosé that Ged's friend (cheers Keebs) had ordered us from London. I say "presume" because I never actually found out what it was but as soon as I saw it was pink and fizzy I couldn't give a shit what it was, so sparkling rosé it is. 

  

So let’s talk about the food. We ordered Chicken and chilli Gau and Lobster and prawn toast for Dim sum. Ged fawned over the softness of the chicken and used his chopstick prowess to flirt with the waitress whilst I admired the crockery and tried to find the fastest way to get it in my mouth in one go. Next up was an incredibly succulent red roast baby chicken for Ged and melt-in-the-mouth lobster and prawn (get the theme here?) ginger noodles for me. The presentation was nothing short of beautiful; when I received my main and saw an entire lobster head staring at me I was delighted - sick right? - and couldn't wait to Instagram the shit out of it as the visual alternative of saying "yah yah look at me I drink sparkling wine and eat lobster, how's your Thursday?" 

The chicken was tender; the lobster was fresh and the prawns were like little creatures from heaven. My only complaint was an ever so slight lack of sauce on my noodles…but that didn’t stop me clearing my plate so much that it barely looked like I’d had a meal there in the first place.

 The cocktails and pink fizz (oh and the subsequent bottle of Pinot we ordered that I’ve only just remembered about) got us slowly drunker and drunker until I was convinced we were in the most high-tech restaurant that this city has to offer and had basically fallen in love. When I dried my hands under a neon green light I was so astounded by the atmosphere that I felt compelled to leave a note for myself. And, of course, washing your hands under the watchful eye of a gorgeous tattooed Chinese man is surely everyone's dream, no? Just mine?

  

To finish off, Ged's friend again apologised for her absence in true London city style by sending over the.most.incredible.brownie from 250 miles away. According to the waitress this dish isn't on the menu anymore so sucks to be all of you because LOOK AT IT! We offered to let her try a bite but she politely refused and said she's "not allowed", even after we drunkenly tried to force feed her and attempted to shield her from the eyes of her manager using a napkin as a decoy. Top marks to her for being great company throughout the evening. 

Even after the bill we kind of didn’t really want to leave in the end because what could have been a highly pretentious "concept" restaurant that relies on its image to sell seats actually turned out to be one of the best, most honest, dining experiences we've had. And we like to eat. The tables were dutifully waited on by a team of humble and happy staff who really believed in the brand, the food was almost under-priced for how good it was and you could see how someone’s vision had so carefully and lovingly been executed to create a truly unique atmosphere. In short: it was just really, really cool.

How to Ruin a Perfect Date

I listen to women all.day.long. I work on a bank of desks with three single women and I also have eight sisters. I literally listen to women all.day.long. And the one thing I've listened to them most talk about all day long? Men. Or, more specifically, the poor men from last night’s dates that they’re currently dissecting piece by piece.

I’m not going to sit here and pretend I don’t join in…okay I’ll be really honest, it’s normally me that starts the conversation but sometimes I do wonder if some of these hapless gents have a clue what she really thought when they offered to pay for last night's drinks...or didn't offer to pay…or didn't offer in the right way…or offered to pay too much... Or how that joke about *insert inappropriate lad topic here* really landed, despite her raucous “laughter” (that's the sound of her faking it - take note)

Gentlemen, these are tips derived from genuine conversations I've had with the female kind:

1. Don’t stand too far away during any verbal interaction. You appear disinterested and, of course, this means you've noticed her spot and/or the chewing gum hasn't worked and her dress is hideous. Oh and obviously standing too far away means you’re sneaky and have something to hide and that’ll definitely come into play further down the line. Basically you’re clearly going to cheat.

2. Don’t stand too close! That’s intimidating! What, do you have an inferiority complex or something? Do you feel that you need to assert your masculinity over her? You are definitely arrogant.

3. Why have you taken her somewhere that’s empty? Just because it’s a Tinder date, doesn't mean you can hide her in the corner of a dive bar. Jeez...

4. Don’t take her to a bar that’s rammed with people or you won’t be able to hear each other! Don’t you care about what she has to say?! At all?!

5. Don’t talk about how much money you make. You’re dealing with 21^st century women here, they’re making it too so it’s not that impressive.

6. No don’t tell her that you’re broke! If you tell a date you have no money it’s definitely a thinly veiled prompt for her to pay. Duh!

7. Maybe just stop talking.

8. A kiss on the first date is great - Carrie Bradshaw says so. You’re definitely going to get a kiss tonight so stay away from garlic and chocolate breath.

9. It’s really suspicious that you’re not eating certain things on this date. Are you fussy? Because that’s really unattractive. Or are you presuming that she’s easy?

10. The kiss of death. It’s real. Practice on a pillow. Practice on a mirror! Just...practice.

11. But remember not to practice too much or she’ll think you've kissed a lot of girls and now you've made her insecure. 

12. Never, never lunge

13. So you lunged. Great. It’s pretty hard to get back from an awful kiss so no it’s not appropriate to ask if she wants to come upstairs. Even if it really is to see the primary school photo you both had such a laugh about earlier. She doesn't care and she’s long forgotten that inside joke because it’s the middle of the afternoon, you've already humiliated her and yourself and she has a bus to catch. Just walk away.

14. Oh god don’t walk away too fast! Everybody on the street has seen that kiss and now they’re going to think you’re running away because of her! She could have dealt with the bad kiss maybe but this is too much. Well you’re definitely not getting a second date but you are forever going to be known as “bad kiss guy”. Congratulations on your new AKA.

15. Don’t wear a Gillet.

16. Do wear a Gillet; Gillets are cute!

17. Gillets are something a farmer wears. Or a grandfather.

18. No Gillets are good for men with big arms!

19. This guy doesn’t have big arms

20. Don’t wear a Gillet.

21. You’re getting it wrong. All of it. Just go home.