Ashley Cowburn takes a look at things you just shouldn’t say to a sexual of the homo variety…
“When did you choose to be gay?”
I think it was the first time I watched Mary Poppins. Mother had to temporarily ban umbrellas from the house to avoid the risk of me running into the street and being knocked down by a car as I failed to fly away from an estate in Salford with a cheap Primark umbrella. Now this question really makes me want to purse my lips like Meryl Streep in the Devil Wears Prada. Did you one day flick on a switch and decide to be straight? No, I didn’t think so.
“I really want a gay best friend, will you be mine?”
No. I would advise you to do your online shopping with Amazon. Instant inflatable gay best friends are on sale for £9.99, but hurry there are only four left in stock. They love to shop and dance, have a great sense of humour, give fashion advice and won’t be easily offended. ‘Customers who bought this item also bought’ instant gay accent mouth spray.
“I wouldn’t have guessed you were gay, you act pretty straight”
To this one I usually reply with the passive aggressive, ‘Oh I wouldn’t have guessed you were straight”. It’s forbidden for gay people to be interested in football, choose a pint over a cosmopolitan, opt for Saving Private Ryan over Mean Girls and inhale the nicotine of Marlboro Reds instead of the more petite slimline Vogues.
“Do you know my friend Matt? He’s gay too!”
Yes, I’m acquainted with every living gay human being on the planet. We have a secret network for gays to communicate, a bit like the Comintern for the communists. Except our network was initiated in Soho, not Moscow, and aims at overthrowing dogs as the household pet and replacing them with miniature pigs – rather than the destruction of the bourgeoisie. I live in London, of course I don’t know a forty-nine year old male living with his parents in the Isle of Wight, just because he happens to be gay.
“Aren’t all gays supposed to have an amazing sense of fashion?”
Fortunately I do. According to me. But I have one friend that dresses like a tree. Brown hair, green t-shirt, brown jeans and brown plimsolls. Everytime we go for dinner I feel as though I’m a character from Lord of the Rings, on my way to launch an attack on Saruman’s castle with the rest of the Ent folk. A sexuality doesn’t come hand in hand with a Gok Wan approach to fashion. Some of us don’t care about fashion, like my tree friend.
“Why are all gays skinny?”
It’s because we all live on a diet of green and peach tea from Pret a Manger and carbs are the new version of forbidden fruit from Adam and Eve’s tree. Our only form of social media is Grindr and comparing calorie intakes on an iPhone app. Those who consider the ‘daily recommended allowance’ as being an acceptable amount of calories are ostracised and ridiculed. It’s called metabolism, and it’s not related to sexuality. Gays come in every shape and size.
“I wish I was gay myself. It’s so much easier.”
Yes, it’s incredibly easy. I couldn’t describe it any better myself. I foam at the mouth at the thought of someone shout ‘fag’ as I hold a guys hand outside area 55 (Soho). There’s nothing like sitting at home with your parents watching a musical on a huge television only to be interrupted by politicians on the television debate whether or not you’re allowed to marry.
“So who’s the girl in the relationship?”
Yes because that’s what I look for in a relationship, a girl. It’s the unwritten rule that every gay relationship has one camp guy who owns a Louis Vuitton handbag with a Chihuahua protruding from the top and voice on par with Alan Carr. Society latches on to heterosexuality so dearly that straights have to transfer their tedious gender norms on the rest of the population.
“That’s so gay. Omg hope you’re not offended?!”
I’m offended that your vocabulary lacks an education.
“I’m like a gay man trapped inside a woman’s body, do you understand?”