Britain. Dear Britain. How I cherish this sceptered isle, this green and tree-filled kidney-shaped blob, quite near France. Your very hills seem carved from spotted dick, the rivers that run through you, Birds Custard...
Sorry. er. Yeah.
I realised I was gay when was 14. But I didn't come out for three years, so that's quite a lot of time to hold a secret. In that time I came to accept that I was different, and quite a lot of people would eventually hate me for what I was.
I wrang my heart out over it, but eventually decided that, fuck it, if I was going to be castigated as "other" then I would do it with style and panache. I would maintain my dignity. In fact, I could be as weird as I wanted, and it didn't matter. I could wear sarongs and make-up, combat gear and gasmasks, dram it up and make a scene. It was expected of me. My nature gave me license to be odd, and this has given me some of the greatest pleasures life could hold.
I feel the same way about where I'm from. Being British makes me stand out. I've been all over America, to South America, the Far East, Europe, and everywhere people know you before you get there. They have a preconception (much like we do of them) and that preconception is often one of unique, anarchistic, archaic, island dwelling monkeys. And it's one I like to play up to. I can't change the fact that I'm British, so I might as well be an advocate. I always seem to end up telling foreigners where to eat and where to go clubbing...And just like my sexuality, I think, yeah, I'll play the game...I'll put the face on you expect to see....and I'll say the lines.
Being British only really occurs to me when I'm talking to someone who isn't. And then see yourself through their eyes, and you'll see what British means.
Outside all this identity politics, there is a life going on, with people, and problems, and hugs to be had.
