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Showing posts with label BBC Comedy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BBC Comedy. Show all posts
Male Lesbianism: An Insight.
// By Jonathan


About a month ago the BBC told me I was a lesbian. Not in so many words of course; we are talking about the BBC here. They can't be seen to swing one way or the other. But they certainly indicated I was a lesbian. Basically they told me - not through the voice of Fiona Bruce but that is how I like to remember it – that I think like a woman. Quite how they have to audacity to suggest such a thing when they employee Alan Carr as a man, is anyone's guess. But the fact remains that they did.

Taking that on board, I can do the maths. Think like a woman + fancy a woman (please note the lack of a plural) = lesbian. You can't think like a woman and fancy women and be straight. That's called denial. And I can't think like a woman and fancy women because I'll get told off.

Anyway, the point of this post is to warn all men - who are in fact lesbians – not to brag about it. Upon discovering that I was a lesbian, I may have shouted about it quite a lot. I'm not sure why. I guess at the time it felt exciting. Now though, it doesn't feel quite so good. In fact, since those joyous scenes in the pub, there have been consequences. And they are not great. The woman I fancy now calls me Mylene, ING Direct have sent me a highly effeminate eco-friendly shopping bag and my Mum has put potpourri in my bedroom. (I know what you are thinking, 'You're a 26 year old bloke and you still live with your Mum?!' No I'm not actually. I'm a 26 year-old male lesbian who has just returned to the parental home for Easter. So there).

The really worrying thing is, I didn't even tell my Mum that Fiona Bruce had come to see me. Nor has my Mum mentioned my new approach to life in the few hours I have been back in Gloucestershire. So either she's just picked up on signals via very recent phone calls, or, even more disturbing, she has known for years. What a horrendous thing to have to live with. (The knowledge that her eldest son is a lesbian, not her eldest son per se). Has she told my Dad? Does my brother know? Is it hereditary? Is my brother a lesbian too? Let's be honest about this, if anyone had to guess which of the two of us was a lesbian, nearly all would say my brother. He's the hairy one.

So all in all, I'm very confused. I pay my license fee so that I can enjoy Spooks on a Monday night, not so I spend the whole hour wondering if Ros is too butch for me. (She's not is she?)
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// By Jonathan


Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

I often find myself hankering back to the good old times. The times before iPods and pyramid-shaped tea-bags and hoverboards. Even though I wasn't there, it just seems to have been so much more simple. The only thing simple about the world today is Jordan. Yes, in some ways it's better, my electric razor gives me an extra five minutes in bed and to get milk for my tea I just have to open the fridge instead of finding a roaming cow. But in other ways, life today is a pain in the backside. I have a DAB radio that only gives me a crisp, clear signal if I don't sit on the sofa. I have a wi-fi connection that seemingly wanders off to Hammersmith whenever it bloody well feels like it and I have a state of the art lamp that is about as bright as Max Clifford's client list. Technology. Who needs it?

Well I do. Because it allows me to dream about an easier time. There isn't much worth watching on TV, but when I do find myself sitting on the sofa - simultaneously laughing at my DAB radio - it is invariably because I am about to watch something based in the yesteryear. Whether it's the 1940's Belgian Resistance series, Secret Army, or the 1960's advertising drama, Mad Men, I love it. I love the clothes, the unfiltered cigarettes, the cars and the dodgy accents. Most of all I love the fact that conversations last longer than thirty seconds before someone picks up their iPhone to check their twitter account. I long to experience this life for myself, but as I can't I am thankful to those who never let us forget that once upon a time people liked spam and women wore suspenders and Gordon Brown wasn't our Prime Minister and a blackberry was something you ate.

As a result, I get quite excited when I see some new film or drama coming up that features outrageous sideburns. Recently I was excited at the prospect of the Damned Utd and only last week found myself excited and then highly pleasured by the BBC's Micro Men - the battle between Clive Sinclair and Chris Curry for the 1980's computer market. (It's on the BBC iPlayer until 18th October if you haven't seen it). Now I find myself excited by the prospect of Sex, Drugs and Rock'n'Chips. It's a one-off 90-minute prequel to Only Fools and Horses. But there is a problem. I love Only Fools and Horses. Really love it. What I did not like was the spin-off, The Green Green Grass. That was bad. Bad, bad, bad. So bad, that I swore I would never watch any subsequent Only Fools and Horses related spin-off or sequel ever again. I didn't want to see something I love tarnished anymore. So of course what does John Sullivan do? He writes a prequel that is set in the 1960's. Genius is not the word. He is causing me great distress. I either watch it whilst hiding behind a cushion preparing to cringe or I ignore it and in doing so ignore two of my loves. (Three if you include Nicholas Lyndhurst). I really don't know what to do.

So, I think you'll agree when I say that this proves beyond doubt that living in the modern world is a nightmare and the sooner we ignore global warming and invest in a Time Machine the better. Ideally one you don't have to plug in.
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