Thursday, 21 October 2010


Something of a gender wars veteran myself- I have the scars to prove it but more of that later, I do in fact eschew conventional weaponry and have a rather queer heart. So, praise where praise is due. I congratulate my heterosexual parents. Were it not for my late father’s predilection to engaging in physical intercourse with my late mother [post second world war] I would not be here, as irritatingly queer and obnoxiously honest as I know I am. I have never been under any ghetto inspired illusion that the GLBT community does not need the straights to celebrate their heterosexuality by breeding. I say- breed on massively up the duff. Happily for me, they breed a pretty constant percentage of queers. Three cheers for them. 

Yet, propagandised into being compulsive consumers, hets also [like most queers] buy heavily into brands, brands manufactured by a global cabal of brand minded capitalist giants who never miss a trick. The pink pound, or gay pocket billiards market, is one trick they have long openly embraced and indeed still kiss in public like all consenting adults should be allowed to do. This homosexual [made heterosexual friendly] niche is easy pickings for them, rather like the lazy blood-sport of fat-cat bankers fishing in an overstocked lake of cockcentric carp. 

However, what for me is far far worse, is that the sausage-jockey entrepreneurs of the GLBT community purr along with the obvious sickness of it. Indeed, swervacious traders transparently profit from the hypocrisy of supporting a brand that promotes a myth, a lie, a play-dough paradigm of a certain kind of sexual bent made just palatable enough for the majority of society to swing along with, use as a labelling tool willy-nilly and fiendishly profit by. Milk would curdle in his grave. Stuff it. 

Unsurprisingly I loathe the brand’s keyword ‘Gay’. I am not in the least gay- I am educated- yes, knowledgeable- yes, and hence, understandably, an often miserable human being suffering from MDD, a suicidal creature who happens to be a queer, bent, homosexually content. Let’s be plain. I do dick and all the rest of it- don’t you dare pretend an innocence of all the many variable ins and outs. The ridiculously small but largely misunderstood word ‘gay’ barely stretches to describe a half of it. Besides which I’m a very left-wing, wobbly atheist, anti-papist, anti-faithist, misanthrope. You go figure. 

Not many moons ago the leading UK gay glossy attempted an attack on ‘gay hypocrisy’- the tacit agreement that is, that we queers are not what we are but what society at large perceives us to be; that plus the degree to which we persistently lie to prop up this preposterous het-engendered convention. By this creed, to be gay is to be atypically sensitive, creative, artistically inclined, domestically refined, body conscious, gym addicted and afflicted to the pleasures of sexual perversions to which society has scant aversion so long as all the publicised adepts at sodomy, buggery and fellatio are ripped, stripped of hair, oiled, air brushed, clean living, monogamous and between the ages of eighteen and twenty five years. Impossible. Unworkable. How very very weird, totally off the mark, not very smart. The truth is, as you may have feared, a lot queerer than that. Take the side issue of fat. 

In the self-same edition of this shiny organ of the GLBT publishing giant Millivres, they had a motoring article which featured the latest ‘fat’ beast from the new Germanic range of Bentley sports vehicles- an obscene and unnecessary indulgence at any time but particularly in the current climate. The phenomenal ‘fatness’ of the cars performance was described as being at odds with the iconic Gay template- of boy bodied twinks, muscle marys, the David Beckhams of this money crazy world. They suggested that the large car’s ‘fatness’ would not despoil the very model of a gay man but rather enhance it. None of this was irony. The magazine’s sensitivities always fall short of a proper appreciation of irony. It’s front cover is relentlessly graced by the ubiquitous half-dressed beta-male type, smiling like a May Queen who has recently received large amounts of cosmetic dentistry, and the back pages [approximately half the product] are given over to advertisements that buy into the obvious ‘gay’ dream from Civil Partnership Planners and divorce lawyers to lonely hearts and high definition porn DVDs. Indeed, ‘dream’ rent boys, censoriously referred to as male escorts, deploy their wares there with blatant reference to the size of the packages on offer. The fiscal revenue from these pages is what keeps the whole joke afloat. All this flies in the face of the hidden reality. This deliberate defiance of the ‘gay’ community in its relentless exhibiting of dishing sustenance to such obvious untruths has become the most contentious GLBT issue of the day. Whoopy do! Queers are far more diverse in every imaginable way than could be contained by the patronising label ‘gay’. Maybe now, in the midst of capitalist crunch time, it is the opportunity for common sense, honesty and clarity to prevail. I try to do my bit. 

No way do I fit the template, nor do I harbour a desire to. For me, fat is the new black. I have no superficial, cosmetically inspired illusions about who I am- I’m a queer man with an XXL figure, almost sixty, the latest in a long line of white niggers. I don’t look in the least ‘gay’ but hey, I’m a sexually active, hairy, portly beast, live with the concept it. 

Yes, apart from the strong possibility of your acne ridden son being one, homosexuals are more likely to look like your paunchy dad or silver-haired granddad than your younger jail-bait brother or suitably effeminate distant nephew. I was once married. I bear the scars. Unusual for a queer I have a rather large gene pool- three daughters, eight grandchildren [four boys, four girls]. Yes, you work out the odds. My beautiful sex obsessed ex-wife has re-married. Her husband is transgender male to female, Jewish, a former soldier, night-club bouncer, son of a London cabbie. They live as a lesbian couple. The wedding involved matching meringue couture- all the bells and all the whistles ably assisted by the neat legality that one of the brides had a birth certificate that deemed she was a marriageable he. 

This is the trouble with the committee constructed paradigm, only clones, the brain dead and the fashion infected pathetically fit it to a tee. I share my present life with a man, have done for the past twenty six years [compare that with the average lifespan of a straight union] and we are inseparable, Civil Partnered and sorted. We would not claim to be married, why would we want to? We would not claim to be monogamous, why would we want to misrepresent our lifestyle with an obvious lie? We enjoy a conditional open relationship, the major condition being that we wholeheartedly enjoy our conjoined lives in which, unlike married couples, we hold enduring power of attorney over each other. How’s that for trust? God being in absolute absentia. We have no aspiration to mimic in any way the rigid role-play and social enslavement that parades itself as heterosexual marriage. In our longstanding relationship there is no repression, oppression or censorship. For those of you who have already assumed the worst, neither of us has HIV or any other STD. Dwell on that if you will- it begs serious consideration as well as your unqualified congratulation. 

Sad to say, some of my Californian friends have got their weird knickers in a twist and appear to be obsessed with wanting exactly what heterosexuals have got- ritual on tap, sanctified marriage, regardless of what flavour of religious bent, and an enduring right to parenthood. Are they mad? With such commercially branded things come certain kick-backs, remarkably short relationship longevity and an unending responsibility for the nurture of dependent but ungrateful kids who, in general, will reject all notions of reciprocal love and mutual symbiosis. In my opinion these precious politically correct ‘gays’ are borderline insane, yet more victims of a greedy need culture of want, must have, will have. [These people voted in a married into the Kennedy clan, homo-allergic Austrian born, body builder, B Movie has-been as Sate Governor. I never forget that, if an independent country, California would rank amongst the top five economies in the world. Be very scared.] 

Peter Mandelson- a British politician more in and out of power than any of the current crop of UK ministers, is a homosexual; not limp-wristed but quick-witted, with the skin of a rhino rather than the expected faggot complexion of a left-wing fairy. He, above all, is a proven survivor, the wiliest of pink foxes, though maybe his current brief is a risk too far. This queer with a peerage is charged with steering British business interests out of the mire confessed from the lower bowels of our distant cousins in the land of the brand Obama. It is one hell of an ask and if he fails, I have no doubt, it will be his sexual preference that will be put to fault by the neo-fascist Sun tabloid. In point of fact, this cad of a lad’s been landed with an inbox of vipers yet is all but a whisker away from being our second ‘out-of-step’ Commander-in-Chief. Cometh the hour, cometh the man- the shirt lifting man. He’ll dress better than the current model, show altogether more poise, smell of Calvin Klein and make guarded references to the interiors at Number Ten. 

It remains somewhat uncomfortable for my often wayward daughters to entertain their inner conflicts with the picture of a 25 stone man, shirt-off, happy on a cocktail of Es, Vs and booze, strutting his stuff to disco-processed Abba at three in the morning, but there’s the truth of it. He’s hoping to pull. They’d probably feign horror at the fact that friends of ours now Civil Partnered met at a cruising ground- a place where queer men meet undercover of dark and park foliage for sex with strangers. This arrangement considerably pre-dating the first occasion on which the word ‘dogging’ fell from a stand-up comic’s lips. It doesn’t faze me in the least. It doesn’t throw me to know that The Terrence Higgins Trust- a charity devoted to the prevention of HIV, has volunteers on paid expenses situated in such places dispensing apt literature, free advice and strong condoms. You don’t like it though do you, because it has the ring of truth about it not the candyfloss pinkness of the ‘gay’ branding you are accustomed to. 

Finally, writing as a Poet, I wish dearly for the next elevation of Lord Mandelson, not just for the headlines, but also in order that the word ‘gay’ may, at last, be returned to its rightful place amongst Keatsian poetic nicety- a fey, almost botanical way of expressing fleeting happiness. But languages evolve at a faster pace than mankind and I’ve been somewhat desolate to find that the hoodie generation has assigned two meanings to the word gay- one is the obvious but the new translation is very akin to NAF or shite. Is it possible that Millivres might feel conscience bound to do the right thing and re-name their flagship magazine NAF Times? No chance- well, about as much chance as Mandelson making it to Primeminister. It’s such a bummer to be so close and yet so far away. Gay hypocrisy is alive and sickening and, much against my wishes, so it will stay. 

Chris Madoch © 2010

No comments:

Post a Comment

Search This Blog



‎'Put your hands up any heteros in the house. Ah bless. Now put your fists up any gays in the house! Wow! That's more like it- marvellous. I've got this day job, a nice little earner- sales rep for KY Jelly. Look- I know it's a stretch madam but this is supposed to be a laugh. Don't tell me your self-lubricating you're in the OAP seats.' CM

'The fossil stand-up with a walking frame, John Rivers- who thinks jewellery should yell CHEAP louder than fucking canaries on acid said of Yoko Ono- if she found her floating in her pool then she'd punish her dog. I knew that heartless bitch could be cruel to dogs.' CM


Soon to be in an HMV store near you- we wish. NO CHANCE this version with Lee Plonker was disbanded. It has risen like a phoenix from the fires of disappointment though. YAY!


It works. Course I have. Fab.


MORTAL INSTRUMENTS Such are the demands of Hollywood that Lily Collins has to continue to pretend that her former relationship with JCB is in fact alive. A little bird tells me it as a dead as a DODO which was a very big bird indeed. Ha. Just like the writer of Mortal Instruments. Believe me the best thing about this movie franchise will be LILY COLLINS who has just delivered the performance of her life in the soon to be released LOVE ROSIE. An Oscar nomination beckons I reckon. And yes, I am in a position to know. THE NEXT LAME DEVELOPMENT IN SELF-PUBLISHING Saddo outfits such as the much fanned ONEIROS BOOKS actually self-publish authors who are too cowardly, lazy, lousy or inept to self-publish themselves. HILARIOUS. Of course you have to get through the onerous filtering processes. Licking arse helps. Judging by this house's nauseatingly variable standard of output the filters in place are utterly worthless. The poetry editor has no understanding of POETRY per se and is a piss-poor poet by any standard. They openly applaud themselves for being revolutionary. Pathetic. They are but a further evolution of the self-affirmation model and the modernly sociopathic ego. Steer clear. Do not indulge their risible waste of tree.


until you're absolutely perfect at it.


with the total freedom to be and love who you are without complaint or restraint.





This is where the first tracks for the new band will shortly appear but meanwhile I will be showcasing songs from prior collaborations- this first one CALIFORNIAN QUEEN is from the album CERULEAN BLUE that I wrote with the genius Dominic Shaw. I do the spoken word and he does the lead vocals and instruments. He is not a gay man and is now heavily into ambient music. The album was loved by Phil Collins, Hit and Run Music and EMI- but eight years ago no-one had any idea how to market it.