…Barcelona

There was no post last week, because I was in Barcelona. Not Bar Celona:

Barcelona:

So you can guess what this post is going to be about, can’t you? I know I say it all the time about holidays, but seriously, I LOVED Barcelona. I could quite happily live there, and I’m quite jealous of James’s cousin and her husband who get to do just that for three years while he works there. If you lived round the corner from that beach, would you want to live anywhere else?

Continue reading at the new home of “Sven’s guide to…”

…a change of scene

As a little reward to the regular Wednesday readers, I thought you might like a sneak peek at the new blog.  I’ll be officially moving over this weekend (well, dual posting for a while and weaning you off this site) but for now, you can take a look at the new “Sven’s guide to…” at http://svenyboy.org

If you linked here (and thanks to those of you who have – I’m touched) please redirect everyone over to the new site, and don’t forget to change your RSS feeds!  (Those of you reading on Facebook, normal service will not be interrupted, but you could click through and boost my stats a bit: it would really put a smile on my face!)

…guilty pleasures

We all have them: things you enjoy that you probably wouldn’t own up to in company. Here are some of mine:

1. High School Musical
Disney have a lot to answer for. How dare they make such a cheesy, cheery musical that appeals to children, grown women and gay men alike? Curse the Disney Channel for having a High School Musical marathon this weekend, with HSM1 & 2 back to back, sing-along lyrics and a dance-along instructional version too. How is a boy supposed to get any work done? James rolled his eyes until the big finale kicked in and we both reminisced about Same Difference performing it last year on the X Factor. Ah, good times. Anyway, back to the film: rent it, buy it, watch it, love it. I defy anyone not to be thoroughly bursting with joy by the end. And if you need help with the routine, you know who to call.

2. Xtube
Anyone who owns a computer looks at porn. It’s axiomatic: get internet access, start looking at naked people and clearing out your cache, temp files and history every time you log off. Judging from the look of horror on your face I’m assuming that you haven’t been emptying out your PC properly because there’s no way you just don’t look at porn. Now, being a cheapskate, there ain’t no way I’m paying for it: enter xtube.com. There are probably questions to be answered about the type of person who would willingly post home-made films of themselves going at it on a web site for the whole world to see – I certainly wouldn’t – but I’m willing to overlook them if you are. Well, this is about guilty pleasures, after all.

3. Gas
In any kind of company this is something to be frowned upon, and even if I know you have read this blog and you ask me about it I will maintain that trapped wind is nothing to be proud of and certainly not to be enjoyed. Of course, when you are on your own it’s a different matter. Burping in company is not so bad, and even to be applauded depending on the company you keep, but the other end is a different matter. Farts are like children: you love your own and hate everyone else’s, and if you are screwing your nose up while you read this, be honest with yourself. When was the last time you were alone, felt one coming and secretly congratulated yourself for delivering it with style? (With extra points if even the dog leaves the room.) There’s a smile specifically for this kind of thing, and we all know exactly how to make it.

4. Barbra Streisand
Like the woman says: “we’ve got nothing to be guilty of”, and yet I can’t bring myself to confess that I do quite like her. There are a couple of reasons; firstly, if I confess that I am a closet fan then I can’t make fun of James any more for his die-hard support for the woman. Second: how gay? Admit I like the woman and I might as well tattoo a big rainbow on my forehead and hit the streets in denim hotpants while shopping for nail varnish. I’m not one for keeping it in the closet, but I’m not one for raving about it every day either. Finally: habit. I’m so used to not liking her that it grates to ‘fess up. Here goes then: I like Barbra. And worse, I love Barbra and Donna Summer’s ‘No more tears’, too.

5. Crimewatch
Does anyone actually watch this thinking they will help in the solving of a crime? I certainly don’t. Crime-fighting credentials notwithstanding, five million people are not civic minded enough to tune in with the sole aim of making the country a better place. There is an element of entertainment about the show – a degree of schadenfreude – that makes me feel a bit uneasy about watching it; so much so that I rarely turn it on any more. It’s like looking in the back of ambulance: you know you shouldn’t be doing it and you really don’t want to, but the chance that you might see something really gory is too much of a temptation and you can’t help yourself. They know it too, and trade off it: I haven’t seen any policemen looking like Rav in my area lately. That said, if appealing to my perverse nature means that they help solve a murder or two, then who I am I to argue? From now on, I will hold my head up high!

So, now you know mine, tell me yours. It’s only fair.

Creative writing Wednesday: issue #9

No creative writing this week as it’s the Easter holidays, so instead I thought I would do some writing-related things, like the meme Siegfried tagged me with the other day. I haven’t done one for a while, so here goes:

1. Pick up the nearest book of 123 (or more) pages.

“Words Apart: Losing your hearing as an adult” by Lesley Jones, Jim Kyle and Peter Wood. I am at work, after all.

2. Open the book to page 123 and find the 5th sentence.

The first of these descriptions is almost a comforting one, and like the earlier description of a snowy landscape, presents a recognizable description.

3. Post the next 3 sentences.

The second however introduces a sense of isolation and discomfort. It agrees with Ramsdell’s (1962) claims about different levels of hearing – being aware of things outside on a different level from those close at hand. This sense of isolation is more common than comfort in the accounts given by the people interviewed.

4. Tag 5 people.

I don’t know if I know five blogging people. How about Gnightgirl, Rocketstar, Brian and I’ll have a think about the rest?

And if that’s not enough to keep you entertained, what about a little writing-based game? Ernest Hemingway is the author of the classic six-word story: “For Sale. Baby shoes, never worn”. The idea is self-explanatory: tell a whole tale using as few words as possible. If we finish writing group early we play this game, creating our own. We usually let people off if they go up to ten, but I’m going to be strict: seven-words exactly. No more: no less. Here is mine:

Waiting for test results. Fancy a gherkin.

Have a go and put your efforts in the comments. Come on, be brave: it’s the holidays!

…coming out again, and again, and again

One of the things about being gay that nobody really told me was how you don’t just come out once: you have to do it over and over again. Each time you have to decide why you are doing it, how much to tell, what the likely reaction is, how you will deal with it, and finally how to phrase it. It sounds like hard work but you get used to making these kinds of decisions in an instant: it’s like thinking four things at once. You have to come out to the neighbours, the people at work, and the gas company rep who wants to speak to Mr or Mrs James. The other day I had to come out to a courier who would only deliver a package to James “or his spouse”. Egalitarian phrasing, but a rather stern and inflexible policy forcing a gender confrontation on the doorstep: how many burglars post their swag to a pre-arranged address then answer the door in their dressing gown to claim it?

Coming out is not a once-in-a-lifetime event: it’s not even once a month in my experience. From the start I have been very lucky and, even including the whole grandparent fiasco, everyone has been supportive and understanding. I can still remember the first people I came out to, and the order; if I needed to make a list of most trusted friends then I would only have to write it down. Although my official ‘coming out’ (if there is such a thing) was March 2005, I actually dipped a cautious toe in the coming out pond in June 2004. It took me nearly one year to go from closet case to something approximating out-and-proud. Some were more daunting than others: my sister, my parents, and I remember being particularly worked up about telling Ben for some reason (it turned out to be a total anti-climax).  There were some memorable responses, too: when I said I was bi, Mike replied quite matter-of-factly that I “could have anyone in the pub then”; when I told Alex he asked if it was still alright to mock me with “gay boy”.

I’ve never blogged about my ‘coming out story’ because it’s not a story in the traditional sense, and if I wrote it all down it would actually be pretty boring. There was no beginning or middle, and certainly no end. Coming out doesn’t just happen: the dramatic revelation before assembled friends and family is soap opera gold, but a highly unlikely means of breaking the news. In the real world, coming out takes place over a long period of time, like a drip feed, filtering through friends and family, percolating down to the most extreme reaches of your social circle over a period of years.  If coming out to people you love takes so long and is such hard work, why should I have to come out to the postman as though it doesn’t mean anything?  Because I’m a minority and that’s the price you pay; you shouldn’t have to, but really, what’s the big deal? I got my box and he went about his day without a second thought.  Coming out to the postman doesn’t matter because he doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.  It is too obvious to state that coming out is harder for people you care about.  Coming out at work can be harder still.  Work colleagues exist in a grey area: you didn’t choose them, you have to spend all day with them, and unless you’re some kind of masochist you have to get on. So while you might make your instant assessment in favour of telling the postman, things are a lot less clear cut when talking to people who should be your friends, but aren’t.

There’s no easy answer. I am constantly surprised by the decisions people make: those I would expect to simply lay it on the line are often the ones who stay in the closet the longest, whilst the reverse is also true: the quiet ones are often the most direct.  I didn’t really have a choice in my current job: I had been on a date with the photocopy repair man who turned up in the first week.  How could I resist telling that story?  Fortunately I work in a very accepting and open-minded environment, and it would have been almost disingenuous of me not to come out right away.  Talking about my boyfriend is as natural as not liking bananas, and I’ve had more in-depth conversations about the latter around the office.  But we are not all so lucky and I can see why others might not be so forthcoming in revealing their orientation: not every work place is as forward-looking as mine.

I won’t be in the same place forever and I wonder whether I will be so forthright in my next job – potentially on the other side of the world.  That said, I’m not exactly shy and retiring: I probably won’t have a choice.