Watching Frasier recently reminded me of an experience I had in the early 00s. The episode saw Frasier unwittingly lead on a gay colleague with a series of misdemeanors and double entendres, creating an awkward hole he then had to dig himself out of.
My experience happened at the now tragically defunct Callaghan's bar in Piccadilly Circus one karaoke night. Back then I was fairly new to Callies (as it was and still is nicknamed) and hadn't got to know the regulars yet so mostly used to sit by the bar on my own. The person in question was a Uruguayan guy. I can't remember his name but it was something like Diaz so I'll go with it. He sang A Different Corner, my favourite George Michael song and totally nailed it.
When he came to the bar afterwards I gave him a high-five and told him what a fantastic voice he had. I assumed he was with some mates but, like me, he was alone and we naturally found ourselves keeping one another company. It was all fairly routine and nothing happened but the following week he was there again and I beckoned him over to join me. As far as I was concerned I was just being pally; we'd got on pretty well the previous week and it was good to be with a familiar face.
However, as the evening dragged on, I began to realise he was very interested in me. I tried to change tactics and talk about girls. Trouble is, I've never been very good at it and tend to describe women as "beautiful" or "gorgeous" rather than "fit" or "fuckable". "Wow, she's gorgeous," I said as a brunette of around my age got up on stage to sing Madonna. Afterwards she sat back down with her friend in the corner. "Blimey, she's beautiful as well," I pointed out. "Perhaps we should go over and join them."
Diaz clearly wasn't buying it. "Do you want to come back to my place?" he asked as we left the bar at closing time. "We can chill out together and you're welcome to stay over." At this point I was 'umming' and 'aahing' in overdrive. "I have to catch a train and get up early for work," I replied. "And I should tell you I'm, um, not actually gay." He looked shocked but persisted. "Is there something in your background or culture or religion that's stopping you doing this?" "No, I'm sorry but I'm really not gay." "Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay." Luckily, we were going in different directions - him northbound on the Bakerloo line and me up to Euston via a stroll to Leicester Square - so we said tentative goodbyes and that was it. I felt really uncomfortable for the entire journey home to Watford and wondered if I had genuinely led him on. That was the last I saw of Diaz; obviously a relief in one sense but I also felt bad for him as he clearly enjoyed the bar as much as I did.
I'd never confronted my sexuality before. To be honest I'd never had to. I knew I was straight and had never even considered the thought of ending up with a guy, so was baffled as to why Diaz thought I might be into him. But after sleeping on it and with the alcohol out of my system, I let it pass. But then...
"Kris, this is Shilpa," said Pete, a mate of mine. He'd recently started dated her, and me, plus Alesha and Pat - two of our other friends out that evening - were being introduced to her for the first time in a pub in Clapham. Immediately I was very jealous. Of Sri Lankan descent and a trainee doctor, Shilpa was absolutely beautiful (see, there I go again!), just my type: dark olive skin, jet-black flowing hair, big brown eyes and luscious-looking lips. Even more infuriatingly, she was very outgoing and we got on extremely well immediately. Why couldn't I have met her first?
Then all of a sudden she said: "Can I ask you something?" "Sure." "Are you gay?". I was taken aback and for obvious reasons a bit upset. "No, why?" "Well, you seem a bit, I dunno, 'camp'." "I'm honestly not." It was like the whole Diaz thing again, and I couldn't work out what signals I'd been sending. I could only assume because the pressure was off I was enjoying her company in a fun and non-threatening way. Perhaps she hung out with gay friends with similar characteristics.
Whatever, she wasn't convinced by my denials either, to the point where, as we left the pub and headed for a bar a few streets away, she actually gave me a hug and then held my hand. As with Diaz it was incredibly awkward, not least because this girl was seeing one of my best friends who was walking only a few yards ahead of us. I was quite impressed with Pete, who seemed to shrug it all off. I'd have been absolutely furious. Perhaps he secretly thought I was gay as well.
After the bar we went back to Alesha's flat nearby for a few glasses of wine. Shilpa was quite drunk by this stage, was still being touchy-feely and snuggled up to me on the sofa. I can't lie, I was seriously turned on but it was as uncomfortable as it was, er, comfortable.
After an hour or so she and Pete left. "Wow, she liked you," joked Alesha with a wink. I let out the obligatory drunken why-can't-I-get-a-girlfriend warble. Alesha wasn't in the state to give me a coherent reply but I got another hug and that helped. Still, it wasn't long before I got all pensive again. As far as I was concerned the whole Diaz thing was just a misunderstanding, but this was a real eye-opener.
I'd had bugger all luck with women and was starting to wonder whether there was a subtext. I'd been in love with Katrina, a Cypriot girl for the best part of two years during my early 20s. I was utterly convinced she was the one and that we were perfect for another because we were so similar and seemed to tick each other's boxes in terms of 'types' - she loved blue-eyed boys and I loved brown-eyed girls - but it didn't happen. After badgering her she eventually got fed up with me and told me straight she didn't connect with me. We didn't speak for six months but by the time of Shilpagate we were back on decent terms.
"Katrina, am I camp?", I asked in an email. "Lol, you're not camp, you're just a gentleman and not afraid to show your feminine side," she replied. A nice reply; I just wondered if I was displaying that feminine side too overtly. My CD collection - full of Pet Shop Boys, Kylie Minogue, Madonna, Take That and The Corrs - wasn't exactly the most masculine, I drank alcopops rather than pints, and I didn't even hate Sex and the City.
There was also an occasion where I was reading one of the Bridget Jones books on the train and spotted a woman opposite me smirking. It could just have been one of those random-smile-for-no-apparent-reason moments we've all probably had in public but it didn't seem that way. What was wrong with reading Bridget Jones? I'd always really liked Sue Townsend's Adrian Mole series so I didn't see the problem with reading a female equivalent - and this was a while before the films came out. Well, at least I still had my passion for football to tip the balance. Bizarrely, thinking about it actually tipped the balance in a different direction.
Football is supposedly every man's heterosexual trump card; it's a "man's game". Openly gay players are virtually non-existant and - forgive me for lazily generalising but - I've yet to meet a gay man who has more than a passing interest. Yet ironically it's also the epitome of sexual confusion - just about the most homoerotic sport on the planet. Players have an orgie when their team scores, dive theatrically when fouled, gesticulate like a Shakespearian actor when a refereeing decision goes against them, and jump into a communal bath afterwards. Paul Scholes and Gary Neville - both married with kids - shared a full-on kiss after the former scored a last-minute winner for Manchester United against their City rivals at the back-end of last season. Fans aren't exactly known for keeping a lid on their emotions either. Even at Sunday League level there was one occasion where I was about to head for a post-match shower and a teammate suddenly said: "Hoody, you've got the hairiest arse I've ever seen." I was stunned - I'd never been called 'Hoody' before.
In all seriousness, I realised Katrina was right. All men do have a sizeable feminine streak; some manifest it more overtly while others do it in a more covert manner through means deemed more "acceptable". Let's face it, football is ultimately the "acceptable" face of homoeroticism and reveals us men to be more similar than we'd like to admit. It's all very well mocking femininity in men but it's there in every one of us.
Looking back I don't know why I got so worked up about Diaz and Shilpa. I guess it was just a learning process, confronting new issues and realising that everyone was guilty of making assumptions way off the mark based on stereotypes. I should point out I'm certainly not taking the moral high ground here because I was guilty of it myself and still am. Analysing and over-analysing probably wasn't healthy but as you grow up there's never any harm in thinking outside the box occasionally - or diving theatrically inside it. So what have I learned from writing this? Probably that I should stop watching Frasier.
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