Exposure

The trouble with Twitter is that I want quite often to tweet things that are in my head.  My head is full of impulses and desires, and it is safe to say that many of these are not safe for work.  Indeed, given the breadth of my followers, I am starting to become much more concerned about what I tweet.

The solution is a simple one; I am going to start a #NSFW twitter account, then follow lots of like-minded people, and post all the stuff that pops in to my head that I can’t otherwise tweet for fear of it having professional ramifications.

I should have become a porn actor; they have an entirely different set of professional ramifications.

Character

The term ‘straight-acting’ invokes my ire in no small measure; it encapsulates so much of what is wrong with attitudes within and towards homosexual men.  Firstly, it implies that there is a way that all gay men are supposed to behave and that it is somehow different from the way straight men are supposed to behave (excepting the obvious difference in sexual attraction); secondly, that you are pretending to be something you aren’t; thirdly, that there is something undesirable about being gay (ergo, gay-acting, whatever that is).  It is a whole great basket of wrong, and I think that it speaks volumes about those who use it; deep down, it reveals shame and an inability to accept our nature.

Even Gays have questionable hairstyles.

I noted a considerable amount of activity on twitter last night surrounding the BBC3 documentary ‘I Woke Up Gay’ (trending as #IWokeUpGay).  It told the story of a young man whose life changed in a very literal way; he rolled down a hill, hit his head and suffered a stroke.  When he awoke, his entire personality had changed and he went from a 19 stone ‘lad’ to acreative gay man, now slim and with a (male) fiancé.  What I tracked ranged from denouncing the poor guy as leaping into a stereotype that ‘did nothing’ for the image of the ‘gay community’, to being exceptionally supportive.

For stroke victims to emerge with different interests, talents and personalities is not unheard of, as the documentary indicated; you might even expect that when the brain is attempting to repair itself after that kind of shock, it might wire itself a little differently.  Although the program was ostensibly about a man whose sexuality and personality changed quite literally overnight, I found the concept that the mind could rewire itself like that to be fascinating.  I’m not even sure what that could mean for the Nature vs. Nurture argument (I side with the Nature camp).

Concurrently, and half a world away, @ChrisCrocker video blogged about his frustration at people’s attitudes towards him being a ‘Top’ in bed; he is a flamboyant character and would not conform to the ‘masculine’ stereotype.  If you’re not au-fait with gay parlance, I apologise, but I’m not going to explain it here – Google is your friend.  As he put it, just because his wrist might be limp sometimes does not mean that his dick is.

Well, quite.

Yes, he got buff.

It was really this concept of masculinity and femininity that got me thinking.  My mother was always quite critical of me, just after I ‘came out,’ for putting it on a bit; that ‘it’ being a slightly effeminate demeanor.  She was right, too, I was affecting it; I was asserting my identity and trying to find my place in my new world.  I’m certain that I do have the odd gesture or affectation that isn’t particularly ‘butch’, but for the most part I wouldn’t identify with either stereotype.  For these purposes, I’m probably what some people would describe as ‘straight-acting’ (a term that encapsulates everything that is wrong with this issue, see above), though I hasten to add that I do not perceive myself as such.

Some people who are ostensibly ‘straight-acting’ all their childhoods don’t so much come out the closet as explode out; a complete personality change accompanied by lots of effeminate gestures and vocal affectations.  Is that real? Were they hiding themselves all these years? Is it all an affectation to assert their new freedom to define themselves?  Does it then become a part of their character by default?

I find myself wondering where this particular stereotype stems from.  There was once I time when I would have said that I doubt very much that there is a hard-wired inclination towards finger-snaps and we are none of us born camp; I find that assertion harder to justify the more I give it thought.  I do think that as children we absorb what we see around us and are likely to mimic behaviours with which we identify, I also wonder why it is that some boys I know have always had a slightly effeminate character, present in their childhood and still present now.  If we are wired to be attracted to the same gender, does it not stand to reason that we might absorb characteristics of those around us who are attracted to that gender as well?

No-one questions it when a man conforms to the stereotype expected of him by society, it is assumed that it is ‘normal’.  When someone deviates from that ‘norm’ then we respond critically.  I accept that is part of human nature, to fear change, to fear what doesn’t fit within the neat little expectations we have of life, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it or accept that we should not strive to overcome it.

What twitter showed me last night is that there a lot of gay men out there who need to remember what we have been fighting for, socially and politically: the right to be accepted and treated equally by society; we have been fighting for tolerance and acceptance from those who view us as different.  Is it not time we showed the same?

Beard

I keep playing with my beard.  Despite it being a feature of my chiselled jaw (lending me something of a ruggedly handsome visage) since October last year, I still find its presence intriguing.  It’s there, on my face, a short bristly carpet of cozy that keeps my cheeks from feeling the cold.

Occasionally a hair grows long enough to begin tickling my lip, though it is soon plucked; if several attack at once, they are routed by a scissored counterattack.  My investment in a beard trimmer has been a wise one, allowing for a tidy, neat trimmed face for when I need to look extra smart.

I think it suits me, though certain friends have told me it ages me.  For my part, I think this can only be a good thing, since even bearded, my age is generally put mid-twenties at a push.  I wasn’t sure about it at first, and even now it still has a few patchy spots that refuse to fill in, yet on the whole I think I shall keep it for now.

It has, quite literally, grown on me.

Treat

At some point in my life, I started liking savory more than I liked sweet.  A taste for custard creams and jammy dodgers was gradually superseded by humous, nuts and olives.  My inner child still goes doolally for a packet of Haribo Starmix (or Gummi Bears, when I can find them), but I would much prefer a Manzanilla Pastrana with mixed nuts and olives these days.

What the hell happened?

I don’t recall choosing to develop a sophisticated palate.  I do recall the day I decided that I would like coffee, then set about drinking it until I did, but I can’t place the first time I enjoyed an olive.

I still love desert.  I love paté with crisp, richly sweet wine.  I love bone-dry sherry with antipasto and salty treats.  I just love food, these days.  And wine.  The way the right ones can make their counterparts sing in such glorious gastronomical harmony.

Occasionally I crave nothing more than a fish supper, although most of the time I will admit to being disappointed after.  Tales have reached my ears of Chippies who have made a deliberate move away from the mundane, however.  You’d think that Scotland would be at the forefront of deep fried gastronomy, but it seems that you have to go south of the border these days.  Oh sure, Edinburgh still has the Disco Chippy and boasts a chip shop with a champagne list that would excite many a footballer, but if you want line-caught fish deep fried in beer batter using duck fat oil, you’d best look south of the border.

All too often, chippies up this end provide a lacklustre service which make a mockery of the joy and excitement I used to feel as a child when my parents would treat my brother and I to a fish or sausage supper.  We’d drive across Aberdeen to Chattans (while I chirped along to ‘The Chatanooga Choo Choo’ in the back of the car), and the whole thing was quite the event.  Now every time I go to a chippy expecting the food to remind me of that magic, and instead I am left with soggy damp chunks of potato and limp batter on something passing for meat.

Even old fast-food favourites such as Burger King and McDonalds disappoint.  After eating serious burgers and making home-made sensations, thin strips of charred flesh topped with plastic cheese (along something that might have looked at a pig once) in a dry bun hold no appeal.  I tried very hard to enjoy a Bacon Double Cheeseburger a few weeks ago, and all that experience did was put me off ever doing it again.

In a way, I should be happy; my palate rejects bad fast food.  I have no urge to eat it and when I do, it is not an enjoyable experience.  I should revel in this with a smug sense of satisfaction, yet instead I feel melancholy.  I used to love the simple pleasure of a chippy, of a fast-food burger, because it felt like a naughty treat. Now, I feel like I’m chasing a memory of my first kiss, destined never to catch it.

I suppose I shall just have to stick with Foie Gras and Jurancon.

Stereotype

“You took me out to wine, dine, sixty-nine me, but didn’t hear a damn word I said.”

Thus sang Alanis Morissette, whom I remember fondly for a multitude of reasons.  Chiefly, her music.  Additionally, she crazy, girl.  Super-additionally, she was in Dogma and clearly doesn’t take herself too seriously.  Before we go any further, I would like to point out that her song ‘Ironic’ does point out a number of situations which are, contrary to popular opinion, ironic.  They refer to what is known as situational irony, which is notoriously difficult to qualify as it depends very much on your perspective.  ‘Ten thousand spoons, when all you need is a knife’ could be hugely ironic, as in a cutlery drawer containing ten thousand spoons, you would be forgiven for expecting to find some forks and knives in there as well.  Given certain assumptions, all of her lyrical examples could be justified as Ironic.

So there. Rant over.

In a stunningly seamless non-sequitur (almost alliterative), I was out for dinner a few weeks ago with a very good friend of mine, when I chanced to hear the conversation at the table next to me.  I was not ignoring my dining companion by any account, for we both held our conversation to drop eves upon the quite obvious situation occurring next to us.

It was evident that this pair (I hesitate to say couple) were on a date of sorts, which from their exchange I had to presume was their first.  Exchange might be a trifle over-generous, now that I think about it, monologue would probably be better suited.

A gentleman sat with a lady (again, both terms are stretching my generosity), where he listened (very generous) to her regale him with the story of her life (a most generous telling).  Then again, it might simply have been the events of the Tuesday previous, it was hard to tell and contrary to the image I have painted of my friend and I ear-wigging, we weren’t so much listening as observing in amazement.

As a rule of thumb, I am not in favour of gender stereotypes, let along stereotypes racial, sexual or any other kind of ‘al’.  On the other hand, here I had stereotype ‘man’ sat ‘listening’ to stereotype ‘girl’ and quite stereotypically he had engaged the full-on smile and nod approach while she quite stereotypically nattered on about something stereotypically inane.

Neither I nor my dining companion could quite believe what we were seeing*.  Over desert, we agreed that we had witnessed this spectacular display of stereotype man-wanting-tail and self-obsessed-girl.  Over coffee, we agreed that he absolutely deserved to get laid; after listening to that amount of drivel and picking up the tab, it was only just that he get something for his efforts.

I guess stereotypes have to come from somewhere…

*This is dramatic conceit, evidently we were watching it happen therefore if we couldn’t believe it, I would be telling you about something that I didn’t think had occurred.**

**Which it did.

Journey

A wise man once said, “It is not the destination, but the journey.”  How we arrive is much more important than when we arrive, or where.

I am strongly of the opinion that he was talking complete bollocks.  As far as I am concerned, the whole point of going somewhere is to be there, not spending hours in airports/jumping hoops/putting up with idiots as if that makes our arrival somehow more rewarding.  It just makes it a relief.  The sooner someone manages matter transfer I will be stepping on to the transporter pad with the word “Energise” on my lips.

If anything, my analogous journey through life has so far been a meandering road-trip where I keep turning off the highway a few junctions early and end up stuck in a traffic jam trying to get back on to a road that might actually go in the vague direction I’m trying to get to.  At some point I tore the map up in a fit of pique after realising I hadn’t even been on the road I wanted to be on in the first place; I think I’m on the right road now, but I’m definitely not in the fast lane and people keep overtaking me in better looking cars.

There’s a healthy sense of self-worth behind all this saying that I’m better than all this.  I’m better than these people driving past me.  I intend to prove it to them, after all, the only person who can make this journey better for me, is me.

Silver

Often, there is a silver lining to a grey cloud.  In this instance, being stuck in an airport with a faulty WiFi hotspot, the silver lining is that I have time to read my WSET coursebook and write blog entries instead of surfing the interweb and wasting time.

 

The big grey chunk is that I have a heap of time to waste.

 

In the event of flight delays and missed connections, I try to keep a stiff upper lip and laugh about the cosmic injustice of it all.  As increasing obstacles block my meandering and the cloud goes from grey to positively dark and thunderous, this sunny disposition begins to become an occluded front.  That metaphor sounds a lot like it makes sense in theory, feel free to disabuse me of the notion if I’m wrong.

 

In a rather pleasant twist, I’m managed to smuggle myself two rows forward and out of cattle, in to premier.  Okay, so it’s a BAe 146 (or Avro RJ-85) rather a 747, so the difference is negligible, but at this point in my day, I’ll take what I can get.

 

“How did you get here, five hours delayed and run around like a carousel?” I hear you pointedly not ask.  Well, they don’t call it Air Chance for nothing.

 

Boarding went smoothly, although (crucial plot point here) my hand baggage was ‘green tagged’ and placed in the hold; I settled in to my somewhat cramped but not uncomfortable seat, letting my eyes droop in spite of the small fractious child making baby-is-uncomfortable-and-bored noises.  Every small movement of the aircraft fooled my senses into thinking we had just pushed back and all was well.  This was not, as it happened, the case.

 

After some indeterminate time (and irritated shifting as said fractious waif continued caterwauling) the announcement came that there was something wrong with one of the computer systems aboard the aircraft, and they would make a decision in the next 20 minutes as to whether we would fly.

 

Point one.  If you say 20 minutes, please do not mean 60.  60 is a lot longer than 20.  I would rather know you meant 60.  Point two.  When you say ‘make a decision as to whether we would fly’ and actually mean ‘whether we are able to fly’, as they are subtly different, use the appropriate phrase.  Above all, don’t keep us hanging.

 

It was all downhill from there.  Our wait lengthened, information became confused, and eventually we were told a part was being flown up from London and would arrive in an hour and a half, and so until all was well we would have to disembark, our luggage would be returned to us at the gate where we had boarded if it had been green tagged.

 

The messages we were given were somewhat confusing at this point.  I was able to deduce that we should disembark, wait at the gate and we would be rebooked on to other flights as possible with the intention of those who had connections being prioritised to minimise impact.  As it transpires this what not wholly inaccurate, but it wasn’t quite right either.  The next flight was fully booked, but our flight was not actually cancelled, instead it was delayed while it was repaired, though this didn’t become clear until we were back in the airside terminal.

 

Confusion aside, all might have been well, but for one rather glaring error.  Unfortunately for me, the trolleyboys (their words, not mine) who were supposed to be taking our luggage the 10 metres from the aircraft to where we were waiting failed spectacularly, and instead took it groundside to baggage reclaim.  Having done so, after a 30 minute wait where we were told repeatedly that it was on its way to us, we now had to go groundside to get it.

 

This meant repeating security, which was a pain, but not a particularly colossal one.  Except that it was.  On marching back up to security I was rebuffed, despite being told by staff that I could just whip back on through; once your boarding card has been torn, you need a new one to get through.  They can’t re-issue at check-in, you have instead to queue with all the people who have to cancel and rebook their connections at the Ticket Sales desk.  This creates a very long wait.

 

By which point, my sunny disposition has gone thunderous, through the other side, and into fatalist humour.  Finally, thankfully, the Air France and Servisair team get it together and fast track those of us needing re-issues, and after Securité: Part Deux (or is it technically Trois?), I’m through, and ensconced at the gate once more.  Scotty has hit the warp drive with a tricorder, it turns out the engines can take it after all, we re-embark (minus a good few who have made alternative arrangements) and I sneak in to the comfy chairs up front.

 

Glass of white regional french vin, Nescafe instant and a blueberry muffin.  Who says there aren’t perks to this life?  I mean, the muffin scares the hell out of me (I don’t even want to think about all the hydrogenated oils, E numbers and fake fats holding it together), but the important thing is I’m going to get to CDG after all.

 

Meanwhile, my Mother has cemented her position in my mind as THE BEST PA IN THE WORLD.  Having informed her of my situation (she awaits me in France, and my Dad will just have to enjoy the connection to Pau without me), she called Air France and persuaded them to reserve me a seat on the 20.45 to Pau from CDG.  All is well.

 

Well, aside from the proposition of a six-or-seven hour wait in French Domestic Departures.  I recall some quite comfy chairs with convenient power sockets; silver lining, right?

 

NB. The very fact that you are reading this indicates either a) They have fixed the WiFi, or b) J’arrive dans le Maison Ecossaise dans le Pyrenees.  Either way, all is probably now Tres Bien.  If it is not, after a glass of wine, it will be.

PS. Ended up posting this on return to UK. Let’s just say I… err… got distracted.