It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of an empty diary and a lacklustre wardrobe must be in want of gay. It’s just common sense, right? Nowadays, every sensible person accepts that gay men are unequivocally brilliant, especially at really important stuff like warming up a dancefloor or icing an intentionally kitsch cupcake. Their dress sense is without equal, their hair impossibly velvety, to say nothing of their steady stream of hilarious one-liners, benevolent bitchiness and scatter cushions that are as well appointed as their abdominal muscles.
I have sad news. The notion that all gay men are fun-loving, emotionally intelligent hotties is a myth — albeit an increasingly powerful one. What rankles is how much we’ve taken this notion to heart. I worry for the poor, maligned straight men in all this. Yes, it’s fun and modern that our womenfolk now blindly subscribe to the mantra “Gay is good”, but you only have to glance at Shane Warne after Elizabeth Hurley got her talons into him to see the risks of adopting its practices. Before the fake tan and fad diets took hold, Warne passed for attractive (admittedly, in a rough/you’d hate yourself afterwards kind of way). Now he looks like a blood orange wearing a girdle. What was Liz thinking? I’m torn between revulsion and pity for the bloke.
The problem has been building for a while. As a phenomenon, it first hit the mainstream in the late 1990s with Rupert Everett’s turn as Julia Roberts’s soigné GW (gay wife) in My Best Friend’s Wedding. Over the past decade, it has elbowed its way into almost every corner of life. Turn on your television on any evening and you’ll see scores of butterscotch faces with telltale thin eyebrows holding court. Gay men have seduced the nation: judging talent shows (Bruno Tonioli, Louie Spence), telling women how to “dress for their boobs” (Gok Wan), or starring as the car crash woman’s “best friend” on reality TV (Gary Cockerill). They have become the principal lifestyle arbiters de nos jours.
To be fair, as stereotypes go, campy tastemaker and confidant is a joyful improvement on “backs against the wall”. While homophobia remains alarmingly alive in some parts of society, it’s hard to bemoan the fact that middle England can’t get enough of John Barrowman. What’s interesting is how smitten we are, though. Government figures estimate that only 6% of the population is gay (a more recent, though controversial, survey by the Office for National Statistics puts the number as low as 1%). For a minority group, it is impressively well represented in pop culture (go figure), but that appeal is basically down to a handful of clichés — they’re so funny, honest, well groomed — that aren’t entirely true.
Here’s the rub: gay men are just as rubbish as everybody else. Let’s begin with two conversations I have with alarming regularity. The first, with a female friend, invariably after the third glass of wine, always begins: “Why are gay men so much better looking than straight men?” The second, uttered with ill-disguised mirth to the thumping beats in a gay bar, starts: “Urgh, why are there no good-looking gay men?” Frankly, I agree with the latter. It’s not that gay men are uglier than straight men. They’re exactly the same, though I suppose — like women — they have a higher expectation put upon them to be “hot”, which means they tend to go for it in the personal-grooming stakes. I suspect this idea that gay men are physically superior was arrived at by people who mistook effort for good looks. Which leads us to the second myth: gay men are snappy dressers.
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Hmm. A trawl through a recent history of ghastly menswear trends suggests that the gay male influence is actually pretty heinous: three-quarter-length trousers, flip-flops, wispy Topman vests as clubwear, padded jackets and man bags are still staples of most gay men’s wardrobes. Again, it’s poor straight men who bear the brunt, though, as they end up following suit a year or two later. Most of our menfolk, gay or straight, now think cargo shorts and a pastel-coloured Hollister polo with the collar turned up are the epitome of summer chic (shudder).
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In fact, when it comes to the gayification of society, it really is the straight men who suffer. You only have to look at the statistics on cosmetic surgery to wonder if the gays who blazed the trail to the plastic surgeon’s office really did Britain’s collective aesthetics any favours. Cosmetic procedures for men have risen by 5.6% in the past year alone, with males now making up almost 10% of the entire market. I’m not talking about nose jobs after rugby injuries: tummy tucks saw the biggest percentage rise (up 15%), with lipo and man- boob reduction not far behind.
It gets worse. A quarter of men surveyed in London recently said they wouldn’t dream of leaving the house without spending at least 45 minutes getting ready. The fact that there is an irrefutable correlation between how long a man spends grooming and how gay-faced he looks at the end of it clearly indicates they’ve been duped into thinking gay is good. But is it? The ultimate manifestation of the trend can be witnessed on The Only Way Is Essex: pumped, tanned, plucked and wrapped up in a V-neck tee that is both plunging and slightly cowled. It’s all rather yucky.
Glistening man boobs aside, is there more serious emotional and behavioural fallout, too? The public perception that all gay men are a bit bitchy and exhibitionist is perhaps unfair, but those traits seem to be on the up in men across the board. Piers Morgan and Joey Barton are just two straight slebs who love a good Twitter spat, an activity that would once have been considered profoundly unmanly. My girlfriends, slugging it out on the frontline of dating, tell me the men they meet are increasingly whiny, needy and vain. But when they have boyfriends, they go home and tell them how handsome and funny all their gay friends are and “perhaps you should shave your back, darling?”
So, who’s to blame, really? I say it’s time to drop this idea of gay men as lifestyle icons and let them go back to wearing their rubbish clothes in peace. At least they can comfort themselves that one cliché is true: they will always be better dancers. Most of them, anyway.
Who’s who? Know your walking gay cliches
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Bear
Hirsute, weighty chap with a fondness for beer. Best compliment you can pay him is: “Woof!” Don’t be fooled by his cuddly exterior: bears are ultra-cliquey. See also Otters, Cubs and Seals.
He says
You’re round. And it’s your round.
Poster boy
Him with a beard from Emmerdale.
Twink
Fresh-faced, absurdly confident chicken in a tight tee (think Skins extra). Out and proud — but thinks Stonewall is the latest brand of jeans.
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He says
Madonna? Pah — Meh-donna. It’s Ri-ri or drop for me.
Poster boy
Zayn from One Direction (he of the high hair).
Muscle Mary
Gym-obsessed beefcake often spotted queuing outside Abercrombie & Fitch, AussieBum underkecks showing above DSquared distressed denim, with fluoro earphones worn round neck.
He says
Look at the pecs on her. Pass the protein shake, girl.
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Poster boy
Vin Diesel.
Trendy Wendy
Found hovering around the rails of Topman in Selfridges, on the prowl for carrot-shaped, dun-coloured chinos and ironic grandad cardies.
He says
Lana’s so overhyped. Totally want what she’s had done to her lips, though.
Poster boy
Will Young.
Fagulous Theatre Gays
Silver-haired lisping thesp, found in the dark heart of Soho or casting waspy asides from the end of the bar at the Garrick.
He says
Vogue us up, ducky. (Translation: pass me a cigarette.)
Poster boy
Sir Ian McKellen.