The Day I Decided to Stop Hating Myself

Now, you may have seen the lovely article in The Times in which Patrick Muirhead talks about deciding to stop being gay because he saw a little boy's delicate pink fingers holding his daddy's hand. You may also have felt a lot of pity for him because it's quite clear that quite apart from needing to meet the right woman, he really needs to have some help with resolving some of the internalised homophobia he quite clearly struggles with. Well, I say internalised, but the article seems to let it all out quite a lot. In his article being gay isn't to do with having sex with men, it's about liking Barbara Streisand and sleazy interludes with Peter Tatchell.

Okay, so maybe being chased around by Peter Tatchell might be a universal experience for gay men all over the world, but I'm not sure it's an essential trait for being defined as being attracted to men.

It's horribly tawdry of our pilot hero to be sharing information like this. I don't think it really paints him in a good light and I doubt it could do anything to change people's opinions of Peter Tatchell. Is it any wonder that Patrick hasn't found meaningful romance when he's so bitterly gleeful in sharing such supposedly tawdry revelations? It sounds like he enjoys anal sex with a capital b, to me.

Poor guy, I really do feel for him. He's acting out like a child who isn't getting enough attention and cod psychology would suggest perhaps he's got some father issues if he's getting so turned on by tiny pink fingers gripping a workman-like hand and saying that if he got married, he'd still struggle with fidelity because apparently no men are capable of that.

I'd hate to be so disappointed with myself that I'd project that sadness across all of my gender and imagine that my salvation would come by bringing another life into the world I find so utterly colourless. I think I'd be terrified if I were the woman he mentions in this article. He's already planning me being pregnant and him cheating on me even though nothing more than furtive smiles has happened so far.

Patrick, the issues you have with your sexuality are issues you have with yourself. You clearly need to let go of whatever it is you're chaining yourself to that has left you so abjectly guilt-ridden about your behaviour that you think you have to delete everything you've been and take such clumsy swipes at everyone who you think is like the you you hate so much. Your ten-year relationship failed. This happens to all kinds of people, for all kinds of reasons. It's okay; let it go.

You don't need to disappear with a POOF! and appear like a phoenix bursting from a wedding cake to show you can move on.

The Sacred Made Real.

So, I was in the National Gallery to look at The Sacred Made Real. It's a collection of Spanish paintings next to wooden statues of religious subjects. It's quite beautiful, but I had a few reservations.

There was an army of priests there, all reading the guide book and listening to the audioguide rather than looking at the paintings. Everyone in their own bubble, happily stepping in front of other people's view because the headphones told them to. It was so annoying. You'd think that if you wanted to have some kind of experience of sacred beauty or to be able to empathise with Christ's suffering, you wouldn't want to do it through the filter of someone's opinion in your ear or in a book.

Oh, hang on.

104 Days to Go.

Jesus. Why did I say I'd do the Marathon? Now it's the new year, the training schedule sort of explodes from a general feeling of being able to jog for an hour without dying to suddenly telling me I should be doing that three times a week, plus a race at least twice that and sprinting training.

It's doable, I'm sure, since people do actually do it, but it's daunting and I'm not loving the prospect of having to run indoors until the snow clears up. Bah. Perky exercise whore fail.

Still, I'm obliged to do it; I'm raising money for THT and I might even try to do a blog post or comic a day once I hit 100 days to go just to make my life even that little bit harder.

My THT Charidee Page.

Grindr is awesome.

This is Not an Exit

So! That was the first decade of the end of the world. It started with murder, ended with marathon training. I guess that's not too bad, considering all the hawks and the owls were convinced there was going to be the end of the world because of a computing error that everyone knew wouldn't do anything.

Well, apart from ten minutes after midnight 2000 when the phone networks were jammed and I hoped it meant that we'd be having some kind of neo-luddite revolution and we'd all have to live off nettle tea and roadkill forever. The many rubbish HAPPY NEW MILLENNISULMUMULIUM! messages ended that dream all too soon.

From 00 to 10, I went from leaving Leeds after being homeless and then being key witness to a murder, then had a crazy decade full of very silly things in London. Being on TV, meeting the queen, losing a year to migraine, then another one to partying, travelled all over the world, decided London was the best place in the world and stayed put. I drew a badger who made me more friends than he had and there was enough wrong with Doctor Who to let me rage for another decade.

I guess it's not been too bad, eh?