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Birthgay – April 2008



Gay men can’t seem to do anything by halves. It was a friend’s birthday recently and his boss (also gay) hired him a waiter for the party. We decided to call him a servant and only wished, with those gorgeous eyes and that tight butt, he would also become our slave. 

Forty bottles of champagne were delivered to the Soho flat, filling every spare inch of the kitchen, and tables were arranged with nibbles, butt-plugs. 

The balcony was fitted with an art installation of umbrellas and a temporary canopy was raised to keep us all dry. Velvet and silk cushions were scattered across the decking and incense smoke curled up into the air. 

We managed to squeeze upwards of thirty people into one tiny flat. There were gays snorting drugs from the skirting boards, faghags raiding cupboards for Cadbury’s Crème Eggs, and an American Amy Winehouse/Alanis Morissette/Jennifer Love-Hewitt lookalike who’d married a gay man to stay in the country. The latter told me all about her explorations into the desert with peyote and a teapot, which seriously made me want to go to the Chihuahuan desert with her to hunt for wild, hallucinogenic cacti. I wanted her to be my wife, but it would never work. Her D-cups would get in the way. 

At the height of the party, couples (new and old) draped themselves over the furniture and began to devour each other. When I pulled a rather nice gentleman onto the bed, we found ourselves being snapped by a friend who wanted to join in. Though it nearly devolved into porn, we kept a lid on it. We merely invited him to join us for a quick three-way snog and snatched the camera away in the process. 

The next morning, I had a head which was thumping worse than a drum ‘n’ bass night headlined by Goldie. To exacerbate matters, I had to find my way from Archway with absolutely no sense of direction and little knowledge of London geography. God seems to laugh at me in these moments, because he always decides it should rain when I do the walk of shame. Naturally, I never wear wool anymore. 

I managed to stumble back to Soho with my sanity intact, although somewhere along the way I lost my dignity. And herein lies the moral: never, ever fuck without a suitable escape route planned. Or never party with homosexuals. One of the two.


Recently a dear friend of mine passed away. Kyle Coope (or ‘Kylie Co-op’, as we called her) passed away on the morning of Sunday 9th March. We want him to know he was loved and will be missed. His best friend, Tom, has the following message: 

‘Kyle, you will be dearly missed by me and many others. I only hope you’re finally at peace. Please don’t hassle Heath