Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Wednesday, November 12, 2003

28 Gays Later

I’m sorry to get on my high horse, mainly because I’m wearing a short skirt and you can see yesterday’s pants, but the report of how people attempted to cure wendys makes for interesting reading, and more fascinatingly, a portion of the church’s commending this experiment. It tells of electroshock therapy and aversion rehabilitation in this country, which never worked as to really make a mary unhappy, you have to stick him in a shopless village and make him listen to Radiohead. With flat hair. And a roll neck.

The way the church is handling it treats it like a disease. And if it is a disease, then they’ve got it into their big-hatted heads that it must be communicable. Oh, semi-blessed creatures, if only it were that simple! One light touch on the arm means that men swiftly swap busses and become Good Listeners. Oh, a quick run-past in the gym changing rooms with your arms outstretched means the whole place will be bare-chested and appreciatively singing ‘Hello, Dolly!’ at the top of their lungs. What bliss!

Say it is communicative, then that would make some people are more infectious than others. I’d probably rate quite contagious, and I know I shouldn’t, but I delight in the idea that I’ve been passing this on to all and sundry for almost ten years now. This would certainly tally with several experiences I’ve had, including one where I got a job at British Gas and three people shot out of the closet a week later. Of course they claimed they were only within to read the meter, but I could clearly see they’d been experimenting with colours in there.

If we marys as a society (rather than a species) are an evolutionary ‘blind alley’, and always have been, how did all this start? There had to be someone at the beginning, infecting us all along the line: 250 million years ago, Thung the Homo Sapien was dragging himself out of the primeval soup, while his friend Fab the Homo Sexual decided to stay in for a little while longer as it’s the closest thing he’s going to get to a face-pack this side of the Ice Age. Was this Queen among Men the Patient Zero? Or more correctly, the Patient Disco? And if this has being going on since forever, it appears that the numbers of Men With Nice Nails on the increase - odd, as we can’t reproduce without a willing lesbian, a plastic cup and an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue. Maybe being a wendy is not a disease, but a trip-switch for natural population control as, let’s face it, being ugly no longer stops people - I’ve been to Croydon. No, I see it as Mother Nature being a joyous landlady, and making sure she gets some people moving in who are going to put up some curtains and throw around some Shake’n’Vac every once in a while.

So it’s daft to think of sexuality as contagious. And there’s certainly not much point trying to treat it, whatever side of the nature/nurture debate you come down upon.

But to make sure, I’m still going to give my Impossibly Beautiful Housemate Mark a big hug when I get in, and I’m now off to the gym to do a wide-armed run-through.

You never know.

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