Let talk about values. What we value. What I value. Yes I love my friends. And my family. And pizza (Not in that order. Take a wild guess which I spend most time with, clue- it begins with a P). But in this modern age of iReaders and Macindosh Lapbooks and that delightful family of drag queens the Kardashians, we are all guilty of instant gratification, instant perfection and instagram filters. 

I have friend named Egor who let me use his image, this image was just a standard image from Egor’s profile. A usual post. I think the post even read “Morning”. I know what you’re thinking, this guy is HOT. I’d tap that, and I did. Repeatedly (go me).  The image below has to date 327 likes. I don’t think my sister’s engagement got that many likes (she’s a lesbian now anyway but not the point), so good for you Egor……. right? 

Let’s call a spade a cunt though shall we? I’m the spade, (which might in this analogy also makes me the cunt) shallow, six pack obsessed, gym bunny, sex app, wild clubbing, instagram story making,  spade/cunt. I’m a magpie when it comes to people- attracted to the funniest, prettiest, shiniest kind- which in my industry (I work in musical theatre, read my other blogs immediately) is very easy. Most people are smoking hot. And if they’re not smoking hot they’re feisty and funny and/or know all the best people and coolest hangouts. However leave stage door and head to the nearest gay bar and you’ll meet/gape in awe at the ‘real people’, not hunchbacks (some of them have hunchbacks), not people riddled with the latest strain of the plague (some of them have the plague), not elephant people from some 1930s freak show (some of them are elephant people from a 1930s freak show) but real people. People who’s faces aren’t perfectly symmetrical (can you imagine?!!!!!), people who don’t have mounds of rippling muscles or svelte figures fuelled only by quinoa and narcissism- Real. People. 
These people are not championed by today’s culture of double tap this, share that (I’m as guilty as anyone of this but am aware of it and am writing a blog about it which makes me an expert. Honestly. Ask anyone.)

I took some friends to my favourite night in London a couple of weeks ago- Horse Meat Disco (at the Eagle on Kennington Lane). I have been hitting this join for the best part of a decade and am completely unphased by all of the delightful debauchery that goes on there. But seeing it all through fresh virgin eyes was both lots of fun, and actually mesmerisingly awkward. The leather bikers boys complete with their Tom Of Finland style get up, the happy hairy bears guzzling down pint after pint of German beer and The Naked Poet. “What the fuck is a Naked Poet?” I hear you scream from behind your vat of Pinot-

The Naked Poet is a (Spanish) guy called Ernesto Sarezale who is a bit of a Gay nightlife mini celeb, one of those slices of gay culture that is just so fabulous that you couldn’t make it up (the way you can fabricate being an actual top, or a story about sober sex). Years before at a magazine launch, (quite the A gay when I was younger)(if A gay means I attended free parties at Dalston Superstore and never knew when or if I would eat again) I had seen him recite a poem about his penis, standing fully nude and utterly confident. 

He doesn’t frequent the gym He doesn’t have a six pack. He definitely doesn’t wax. 

He does however empower people with different body shapes. He celebrates imperfection. He definitely has heart. 

Let’s celebrate The Naked Poet, even for a minute before we get back to perving on Egor’s pics. The Naked Poet…….

Values. Not just a clever drag name. (I’ll give you a minute)

Right, time for the gym………
See ya



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