I wrote this for Gay Times, the magazine which has hired me to write a monthly column. I like the new look of GT, and the editor is great, he’s very hands-on and very helpful. He’s asked me to do what I like, and so I penned this whilst heated.
It seemed well placed. I’m just so fucking sick of being the target of heterosexual rage. They really hate queers and UK gays play along. I know it’s rich, me being fed up, since I act the gay clown for the straights, but don’t forget I’m a middle class hippy from San Francisco, and I’ll never understand why queers in this country are so complacent and thankful.
Maybe my editor is right. I’ve been running into lots of ex boyfriends lately, all of whom have told me i seemed angry when we were going out. And I thought I was the calming force. Of course, I’ve always agreed with my friend mark; if you’re not really pissed off, you’re not listening.
Blah blah blah…
So here you go.
Poetic Justice
After a recent performance in Islinglton at a comedy/poetry performance night, I was assaulted by what I thought was simply another angry, drunken British mess.
“Hey mate,” he was boorish and slovenly, and basically average, “you’re only ten percent of the population.”
Three other audience members walked by, shyly offering their compliments. I thanked them.
“I said, you’re only ten percent.”
I flipped through a pub pamphlet.
“So what’s the big deal? Why do you go on about it? It’s a fucking bore.”
Mr. Charming rattled back to his chair and sat, hunched forward, staring daggers at me while I chatted with the skinny, deliciously coy youth who hosts the evening.
“What’s her tumor?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s a poet with a drinking problem.”
The turd turned out to be a fellow performer with sexuality issues, who was going on in
the second half. On and on, I’m quite sure. Or Al-Anon, if there was a God. But I had to rush to Putney where Australians were waiting anxiously to be humiliated, otherwise his fat ass would’ve been religiously heckled. He’s apparently brilliant so shall remain nameless. Oh, what the hell, he’s a cunt named Paul Burtill who phoned the event organizer the following morning, surreptitiously leaving my name off his apologies list.
One might wonder why someone so vitriolic on stage can be so quiet when attacked whilst off. Firstly, I like the shape of my nose. And if I responded to every nasty comment, I’d still be working, but the show is over, your ticket got you the jokes up there, now you can fuck off. Daddy is done. I’ve clocked out.
Later that night I was still shaking with frustration from the experience. Were I a straight guy who’d spent, maybe, one third of his thirty minute set of mostly new material talking about sex and intimacy, would Paul B have been so offended? I suspect not. A retelling of birds and bees is something he’s cozily familiar with, but my cock and balls remix is like muzak to his ears. It’s annoying, like paying to see Star Trek VII, then realizing once you’ve sat down in the dark that the entire film is dubbed in Italian. And you don’t speak Italian. You want to speak Italian, you even fantasize that, someday, you might be Italian, but you don’t believe in yourself enough to learn the verbs, or take a class, or finger Tony Soprano. The more Italian you hear, the more you realize how you’ve failed, how unlovable you are, and how completely pathetic and high brow your fucking poetry, your lifeless, lustless lick on a page has become. You’re a waste of good air. You’re not even zero. You’re less than cancer.
I’ve been asked many times, by some well-meaning white people, why I even bother coming out in my act? I’m quite aggressive on stage. Isn’t that enough? I could just not mention sex, or at least not be so detailed in my description. But if I did that, I’d be following in the long tradition of British campry, and frankly, I’m not that self-hating. In school, I was tall and languid, and I studied the arts. I was a gay bullseye, and their bullying sharpened my tongue. People think the Koran is homophobic? Try American teenagers. Luckily, I was raised by a San Franciscan; my mom outed me, and never asked for an excuse.
But in polite Britain, gay is less a threat, and more a vulgarity. One is only allowed to be effete. Privalaged. Pampered. The veiled terms to describe various royalty and stage darlings go on and on. In seeking equality, in a veritable vacuum, Peter Tatchell has become a periah to some gay men, his intellect an embarrassment, his decency and articulation trivial, when all he asks is, in essence, why should my rights even be up for debate? Maybe it’s because the English don’t mind a round-faced compere with flittering wrists and a shiny jacket, as long as he doesn’t reveal anything real about himself.
That kind of pinched, constipated candor can be amusing, and if that’s what pays the bills on your Holland Park home, then go girl. However my hands feel tied. And I’m lucky. I’m not a queer who’s been beaten or murdered. Yet. Maybe I’ll be clubbed to death in the back of a comedy club by an angry closet case, and in this current climate of post-Jade tensions, I’ll probably be blamed. After all, I’ve been warned in Manchester to tone it down. In Manchester? Look around. Clearly I’m NOT the problem.