There we were, going about our daily business of the day, perusing the interwides for stories to improve, and then we stumbled across this hullabaloo. It is that footballer, Frank Lampard, who we find to be attractive, and his fiance, Christine Blankety Blank, who we find to be a trout. Two things came to mind – there is no accounting for taste, and who wants to be on a boat when there’s so much more fun to be had on a beach?
*calls Mum*
Andy Bell off-of Erasure and latterly Pop Star to Opera Star has patted ‘little’ Joe McElderberry on the back (not the back bottom, the back) for coming out as gay. Yes, really.
‘I said to him that I thought it was very brave what he’d done,’ said Andy Bell, who never had to come out because the world is neither blind nor deaf. Well, word up Andy, Joe McElderbush was all ‘I’m straight but girls can wait’ when he won the X Factory.
It was only when a lover went to the papers that he decided to make the very ‘brave’ decision to come out. Not so much coming out then, as being dragged out by the pubic hair kicking and screaming. Credit where credit’s due. And no credit where credit’s not due.
‘It’s very hard to come out in the industry,’ says Andy, obviously confusing dollying about on stage surrounded by gays with working down a coal mine. ‘It’s male-dominated – run by men who like pretty young girls,’ he goes on, obviously never having had any contact whatsoever with showbusiness.
So, can we a) Stop pretending Joe McDonut came out: he was pulled, probably by too much teeth b) Stop pretending it’s particularly hard being a gay pop star: it’s a gay industry – get over it and c) Stop making out it’s soooo brave to be who you are. We’re not in Iran. And d) and e) We say get rid of Coming Out altogether.
Some People Are Gay. Get Over It!…? That counts for gays as well as straights, mmm-hmmmn.
*pats hair; eats a Fruit Pastille*
We may laze around foreign beaches with each and every detail of our bollocks on clear display. We may walk the streets of a metropolis topless with our white guts hanging out. And we may sit in pubs with our trousers undone and our shoes and socks off but we English never – never! – jog topless. It’s just not done (except if you’re someone from The Only Way Is Essex). It smacks too much of showing off. And the English never show off.
*curtseys. Patters off stage in the style of a ballerina, head bowed*
This particular knob, Mark Wright (we have first-hand experience. Don’t judge us!), has been working out. He’s trimmed, he’s flattened, he’s cut out refined Haribos and he’s feeling thin and gorgeous. His nipples also face downwards. Clever!
And we only decided to include two-thirds of the mister-sister to his right because, well, there’s only so much lip-gloss and delusion one can take of a morning.
