The Hackney Gay. The Butchest Day Of My Life.

I’m currently on holi-gay in Hong Kong. If you were already following my blog you’d know that. Idiot. My sister lives here with her husband and her son (and their Indonesian live in helper in a huge gated complex with a gym overlooking the sea, sauna, steam room, jacuzzi spa, tennis courts and club house. I’ll pause whilst you reach for your phone to send £2 a month to my sister and her family……… poor things).

During the run up to my trip it became apparent through the magic of social media that a couple of very good friends (I’m so popular) of mine would be in Hong Kong at the same time and that they were visiting because of something called the Hong Kong 7s. If you (like silly old me) don’t know what the Hong Kong 7s is…….. let me (now basically an expert) explain. The Hong Kong 7s is a rugby tournament. Rugby is a sport, a sport played by perhaps the most attractive men on the planet. Imagine Tom Hardy procreated with a Roman Gladiator to create a small army, the army was then lined up and the fittest, most chiselled, God-like men were taught to wrestle each other and throw a melon at each other, that would basically describe the least attractive players.

Now I can hear your brain working now…….. ‘Rugby? How boring!!!!’, ‘Rugby? I thought this blog was going to be funny’, ‘Rugby, but I already pretend to like football to fit in at my local pub when I visit home twice a year to boost my ego and feel like Kim K visiting a leper colony”. Before last Saturday I wasn’t a fan either. Here’s what went down in bullet points. I’m told idiots like to read bullet points. Idiot.

– We arrived at the stadium at around 11 after a laborious (air conditioned, dirt cheap) 40 minute taxi ride (being middle class is tough).

– I felt somewhat over dressed in my tailored shorts, tucked in vest and very on trend East London white socks. It’s fashion Brenda, look it up.

– We met my sister’s friends who had saved us a seat. They had come prepared with hats, sun cream and clothes that wouldn’t later that day form a sweaty second skin in the Chinese sun like mine did.

– We then queued to take cash out.

– We then queued to order jugs of beer.

– We then queued for food. Note: nothing I consumed last Saturday wasn’t brown. My scales thanked me for that the next day by obviously lying to me (that’s a fat joke).

– We then queued for literally no reason whatsoever. Queuing for things is somehow more fun in other countries……………. said no one. Ever.

– Once all the queueing ‘fun’ was over we took our seats to enjoy the fast paced 14 minute games of muscle man sport without the dreaded offside rule, which was basically invented to make 14 year old me look like a complete waste of space in P.E.

– I consumed double my own bodyweight in Carlsberg and left the stadium at around 7 accompanied by my brother in law who was at this point dressed as a member or Asterix’s gang. Sure.

This might have been the butchest day of my entire life. It was certainly the butchest thing I’d ever done on purpose, well if you don’t count the day I queued in the POURING rain for Celine DionBeyonce……….. football tickets (I was SO brave.) I could hear all the fantastically butch questions my Dad would ask me? “Who won son?’, “What was the final score son?”, “Which team had the hottest players?”…………. maybe not the last one. I would soak up his admiration for my attending a sporting event, I would smile and sup my martini beer with pride, and we’d drink scotch and laugh between puffs on a fat cuban. The cigars I mean, not an overeater named Carlos.

None of this happened of course. My dad’s first words to me the next day were “Did you get a good tan son?”. What a guy. He gets me. And actually interestingly enough he hates scotch, I however basically keep a bottle under my pillow. I’ll get to that in a different blog.

Maybe it was the butchest day of my life, but it seems the only person to recognise that is me. And now you, my beautiful readers. So the butchest day of my life to date, in idiot bullet points consisted of-

– Drinking

– People watching

– Perving on hot men

– Pretending I’m masc for masc while dancing to Donna Summer

– More drinking

– Watching half naked men wrestle each other to the floor

In review, a rugby match is a lot like a weekend in Dalston/Soho/Vauxhall but with more sunshine, and less style. So I think I’ll stick to my tailored shorts and white socks for the time being. This fabulous gay has had his fill of butch for a while. I’ll need to change my status to ‘power top’ after all this rugby, will get to it straight after my shanghai pedicure.

Smell ya later



*I have since been informed that there actually is an offside rule in rugby. Not by this guy. He was just one of the ref. JUST. A. REF. I’ll leave you with this image. You’re welcome.

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