I've never knowingly been aroused by a Tory. Bowler hats and brollies were a turn-off
The gay community does its best to look after its own. If we hear about lesbians being persecuted in Africa or equal rights being denied in Mexico, we’re on the case. If they don’t watch out, we’ll set Peter Tatchell on them. In the absence of recreational drugs, we can always improve our self-esteem by listing all the important historical figures that were “one of us”: Oscar Wilde, Michelangelo, Joan of Arc, and so on. But Ted Heath (as exclusively revealed on newstatesman.com last week)? Must we? Aren’t there some grounds on which he can be disqualified?
I have never knowingly been sexually aroused by a Tory. Even in my youth, when I wasn't exactly picky, I would assess each shadowy figure on Hampstead Heath for tell-tale signs of his political proclivities before I delved further. Bowler hats and brollies were a turn-off. If you wore a flat cap or a Che Guevara T-shirt, on the other hand, I might well be your plaything for 20 minutes, at least. The only exception I can remember was a former member of the RUC who had the irresistible allure of real bullet scars and a novelty colostomy bag. We all have our breaking point.
So it is most unsettling to discover that Ted Heath may have sat on my side of the church. Tories always seem to have regarded a bit of homosexual slap and tickle as little more significant than killing the odd fox or crushing a trade union. As long as the servants didn't find out and you still used the correct knife and fork, no harm was done. Yet I do hope I didn't pleasure Ted Heath inadvertently all those years ago. Please God, his butler won't sell his story and reveal that his master used to drag up as a miner and troll Russell Square in the late Eighties. I feel nauseous just thinking about it. Ted Heath always seemed so . . . uninteresting: a sure sign of a heterosexual, in the old days, at least. But apparently he was raving.
Suddenly the three-day week makes perfect sense. Ted, bless him, was thinking of all those workers who would suddenly have unexpected leisure time to fill. What else could they do but hang around public loos waiting for the prime minister to creep in looking for some hot action? We queens have our own priorities, which affect everything we do, I'm afraid. It's a subconscious imperative. Leonardo da Vinci, no doubt, only invented the parachute so he could float across a poppy field in Tuscany to catch the eye of a hunky shepherd he had a thing about. The vision came first, I suspect; the technical wizardry required to bring it to life was entirely inspired by sexual desire.
Whom next must we gay folk embrace as an unwanted brother? Enoch Powell?
Talking of annoying Conservatives with a whiff of nancy boy about them, Michael Portillo (he of the pale pink shirt) says with great authority that it would be a disaster for Britain if Prince Harry were to be killed on active duty in Iraq. It won’t exactly be Christmas for Harry, either. Never mind all the other young men whose deaths are presumably not a disaster. It would be very sad, I’m sure, but we’d manage. Think of the award-winning speeches by Tony Blair with his tragic face on, the pictures of Chelsy wailing over Harry’s coffin in a veil (at last!), the lovely commemorative plates.
Like most gay men, I have a friend who is a hairdresser. He got fed up with the small talk and retrained as a dog groomer. No inane chats with his canine clientele about where they’re going for their holidays. Bliss.
Unfortunately, he still has to speak to the owners when they drop their dogs off at the parlour. He vaguely recognised a fading actress as she handed over her shih-tzu for a wash and blow-dry. She then presented him with two bags of doggy treats. "These are for when he's good, and these are for when he's very good," she said.
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