Gay-away

I have a sudden urge to hang up my Ruby Slippers. I’m no longer feeling like the gayest gay in the neighbourhood.

This weekend was Pride, for one. I’ve never been proud in the slightest, and can’t abide crowds. Gay crowds even more. Where crowds of straight men tend to bellow (cf football matches), a mince (a clutch? a squeal?) of gay men tend to bleat. Whenever Hazel Dean is inevitably wheeled onto the main stage, there’s going to be a thin, penetrating squawking, as if someone had squeezed 2,000 vuvuzelas into nasty TopMan t-shirts and run loose with the glitter make-up. I do not want any part of this.

One friend tried to strong-arm me into going, saying it was ‘important’ and ‘political’, but I really can’t see the solidarity in fellow man by wandering from a pasteboard table covered in butt plugs to the bear tent and back again in the sun. Instead I elected to pop into town early and get all my shopping needs out of the way before city filled up with provincial gays completely beguiled with the idea of a two-storey H&M. Turns out I was too late, and lo, got trapped on Oxford Street as the Pride March tottered past. And all the parade seemed to be was open top buses from nasty nightclubs from Milton Keynes, whippet-thin creatures of indefinable sex leering over the side at the passing crowd and blowing whistles like it was the only way they knew how to breathe. Does anyone else find it apt that whistles are the weapon of choice for shrill gays across the world?

And while we’re on the subject, I notice that Minogue K has a new album out (a cunning segue there, I think you’ll find). Here’s a simple review: ‘Aphrodite’ is perfect music to hoover to. Minogue K is once again diminutive proof of the law of diminished returns after her career peaked with a song that is basically ‘La-la-la’ for three minutes, and ever since then has been trying to recapture that nursery-rhyme high point by throwing as many big name producers at an album as will stick. This latest album does bounce along with the best of intention, but the more I listen to Minogue K’s voice, the more I’m reminded of an angry wasp in a biscuit tin. Like the gays on Pride Saturday, you’re best to avoid.

I do hope I’m not leaving the gay community entirely. There’s always been a slight instinct to fade away over time, like a slightly-fruitier Cheshire Cat, and with two touchstones kicked away, you do have to wonder. I shall let you know the moment the posters of Cher come down out the bedroom, darling viewer.