What had got me focussing on procrastination was a visit to Tate Britain’s ‘Turner & The Masters’ exhibition. The curatorial blurb that accompanied the paintings kept hammering home the idea that Turner was intensely competitive and obsessed with outdoing his peers, and the masters that came before him. Apparently, at the Royal Academy, it would seem that part of training an artist up was to get them to copy a great painting, then try to ‘better’ it.

Inevitably, I found myself comparing the paintings I was seeing. And hearing other punters expressing their opinions about which they preferred, which was better. It made me irritated and itchy to be cornered into this approach. Why couldn’t I just look at the paintings and appreciate them individually, without reference? So, I decided I would, and stopped reading the blurb.

I still got an idea that this was a Turner, or that was a Rembrandt, ‘cos I could detect consistencies in style, and recognised a few of the paintings. But I found I got a lot more out of the exhibition once I stopped reading the blurb and just observed.

I was inspired enough to get some charcoal on the way home, that I might do a bit of sketching. Before bed, to relax, I thought I’d have a go at making a pretty picture. As I picked up my sketchbook I was suddenly overwhelmed by the depressing realisation that I can’t just knock off a masterpiece like Rembrandt in five minutes, so what’s the point? (I doubt he knocked out masterpieces in five minutes, either, mind you, but I’m lazy like that and I want it all NOW.)

After I reminded myself that I could draw a sketch and it wouldn’t matter if it was complete crap so long as I got something out of the process of doing it, I was able to put charcoal to paper and came up with something that was perfectly okay. So, I did it. It’s on my bedroom wall. If you’re ever passing by, drop in and take a look. There’s nothing else quite like it.

But towards the end of the year, good intentions regarding active support for human rights, and the challenge to oppression, seem to be getting confounded with execution. Since the BBC news website launched an online debate about Uganda’s plan to introduce capital punishment for certain homosexual ‘crimes’ under the heading ‘Should homosexuals face execution?’ a huge hue and cry has broken out.

It was an alarming headline to read and it’s understandable that it initially stimulated feelings of outrage. But as Lance Price pointed out in the Guardian, this outrage resulted in a misdirected and disproportionate criticism of the BBC itself. If the headline had not been so evocative, would the central issue – that the ugly Ugandan regime is violently oppressive towards homosexuals – have reached as wide an audience as it did? To me, the original headline, which was subsequently changed to something less ’stark’ in response to complaints, was a successfully creative piece of journalism because it demanded attention, and stimulated awareness of a major human rights injustice.

The flurry of finger-pointing and judgemental criticism that followed transformed the focus of the issue into one of whether the BBC was irresponsible, and incited a tedious debate about whether the institution was suitably impartial in its documenting of the issue. This kind of flim-flammery is unhelpful because it is tantamount to shooting the messenger. The BBC should be applauded, not reprimanded, for so dramatically highlighting the villainy of an oppressive regime.

It is easy for those of us who enjoy the luxury of relative freedom to nit-pick at what are essentially issues of presentation. In October of last year I visited Dublin and saw the fabulous DV8 theatre production of ‘To Be Straight With You’. In the foyer after the show, which was heavy on factual information about global gay rights injustices, I overheard a group of bourgeois, jaded theatre-goers criticising the piece for being ‘a bit too theatre-in-education’ for their liking, and for ‘preaching to the converted’.  Whilst these people should certainly be free to have opinions, the self-indulgence of this kind of pomposity shows them up to be fuckwits.

I consider myself to be pretty switched on about political affairs and yet there was plenty in DV8’s show that was new to me, or that at least hammered home certain realities. Like, for example, the fact that homosexuality is illegal in at least 80 of the world’s 195 countries; and it is punishable by death in Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, United Arab Emirates, Yemen, Iran (over 4,000 LGBT people are estimated to have been executed in Iran since I was born in 1978), Iraq, Mauritania, the northern provinces of Nigeria that are under Sharia Law, and some areas of Somalia (Sharia Law again). No salubrious solution to such a sorry state of affairs exists in dismissing what I say because this sentence is unnecessarily sibilant.

You don’t have to travel to the Middle East or Africa to find the kind of homophobic attitudes that underpin such insane legislation as that being debated in Uganda. Another benefit of the BBC debate is that it revealed there is a significant number of people within the British population who harbour homophobic opinions. Scrolling down through the numerous posts I was floored by the level of bigotry within our supposedly permissive society. Time Out recently did an article highlighting an alarming increase in homophobic violence, especially in East London. This is supposedly one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the developed world, yet there may be someone who shares your postcode who’d happily see you dead for being a faggot.

Seeking out our differences, rather than our similarities, and finding fault for the sake of feeling superior, are acts of separation that can only be countered by an attitude of solidarity. There is no winning in one-upmanship, although it’s true that knowledge is power. Since I’m not President of the Universe I can‘t impose a liberal outlook on all the world’s countries. But, in my small way, I can put the information I absorb to good use and make a contribution. And it is possible to challenge prejudice that is more insidiously sewn into the social fabric, not only the most overt examples of bigotry.

Last year one of my (straight) flatmates had a boyfriend who spent a lot of time around our flat. He was generally pleasant and ostensibly open-minded but annoyingly fond of using the word ‘gay’ as a derogatory adjective. I overlooked this for a while but eventually I challenged him and asked why he thought it was an appropriate word to use. He maintained that it was innocuous. I suggested that if a gay kid was to overhear him using the word in a negative context it would be likely to communicate the idea that being gay was bad, and that the child would then be ‘crap’ or ‘shit’ or ‘pathetic’ in his/her own eyes. I told him I knew this was likely because I’ve been that child myself. I finished by pointing out that the only reason I hadn’t thrown him out of the flat was because I was being tolerant of him, not the other way round. Before my eyes I saw him change his mind.

This guy was very warm to me, and unquestionably gay-friendly on the face of it, so you could say I was preaching to the converted, or making a mountain out of a molehill, but I never heard him use the word ‘gay’ in the same way again. With any luck, he shared his new-found perspective further afield.

Political power begins with personal participation, and we can mobilize through the meeting of our minds rather than splitting hairs. Pass it on.

Some of the things I have done to get over you is a project gathering first-person testimony for a theatre installation. They want people to write to them with some of the things they have done to get over someone. They’ll then post a selection of contributions on the blog. Names and email addresses remain confidential.

someofthethings@gmail.com

www.someofthethingsihavedonetogetoveryou.blogspot.com

It’s the time of year when those of us who are single are forcibly reminded of the mainstream consciousness that to be a solo player is to be the poor lamb whose life is not yet whole because we haven’t found our other half: “But why are you single? You’re so NICE!”

I’m no expert in Darwinian theory, but it seems to me that since Carl Wittman wrote his “Gay Manifesto” in 1969 there has been regression, rather than progression, when it comes to gay matters of the heart. A couple of million years ago, we were little more than monkeys, sitting around playing with each other’s bits without any fuss or fanfare. Then along came the church, and ideas of respectability, and propriety, and the imposition of an ideology that demanded lifelong commitment between a man and a woman. Ideas of sexual and social liberation blossomed in the 1960s and 70s but now, in the 21st century, it seems everywhere I turn gay men are hellbent on apeing this out-of-date straight model of relationships.

In his recent book, Boy Crazy, Michael Shelton suggests that the monogamous model might not even be completely natural for heterosexuals beyond the period of about four years – the point at which, statistically, many relationships draw to a close. The argument for the historical relevance of this pattern is that the first four years of a growing infant’s life constitute a period in which it is most vulnerable and requires maximum support and protection, best achieved by both parents remaining in close proximity. So, historically, a (temporary) committed partnership had a practical purpose – literally for the sake of a child’s survival. Beyond this, there is no natural necessity for complete lifelong sexual exclusivity for straights. In fact, males sowing their wild oats widely is a beneficial strategy for engendering genetic diversity.

So, when a rational deconstruction of the monogamous model suggests that for straights it is non-essential, and for benders it is completely irrelevant, why the persistence of the idea that we should all aspire to partner up with a handsome prince?

My theory of this devolution is that we are in the grip of a romantic tyranny, which is manifest as a cultural epidemic of codependency, one that is evident in the majority of Hollywood movies and in practically every love song. Romance is frequently written into the script as a tool for the entrapment of another person. Assumptions about who the desired partner is take precedence over the reality of who he/she is; and the conditions of the relationship, tied up with expectations of how it should evolve, are sewn down before the true dynamics of the relationship are given space to be expressed authentically.

Gay marriage, when founded on this romantic ideology rather than on practical concerns, is not a forward-looking concept. Instead, it is a retrograde bourgeois fantasy. And, more insidious still, it is one which holds at its crux a diminishing deferment to heterosexual hegemony; it is an act of retreat into the shadows of the status quo: “we recognise that straight people do it better; but, look, we’ve exchanged rings, too, so we’re almost as good as you, really!”

Now, I understand that in the early days of a relationship the excitement, verve, and sexual spark can mean we do wish to focus on this one person over all others; that exclusivity comes easy, even naturally. But the honeymoon period doesn’t last; it can’t, because the basic fact is our brain chemistry won’t let it. So, promises of enduring love and exclusive commitment are unwise – you are likely to change your mind.

There is nothing wrong with exchanging gifts of love, on any day of the year, provided the wrapping paper doesn’t conceal a hidden agenda. But, for my money, the most meaningful thing you can do this Valentine’s Day is to divorce yourself from expectation and duty, release yourself from the grip of romantic tyranny, lean across to your loved one and softly whisper these three little words: cards kill trees.

Dickie Beau and Timberlina, in association with the Gay Mafia behind the Pride Legacy Project, present A (pre-)VALENTINE’S DAY MASSACRE on Tuesday 10th February at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, with special guest, David Mills. Doors, 7.30pm. Show @ 8.30pm. Entrance: a fiver.

David Cameron, on the other hand, has got the complexion of a waxed apple, and consequently a longer shelf life. He embodies a kind of gung-ho, William Tell-ish quality. I was watching him in Prime Minister’s Questions on the iPlayer recently – he is uncannily like Tony Blair, right down to the contrived but confident use of gesture. He even has the occasional flourish. He almost vogues.

In contrast, Gordon Brown has the paralinguistic range of a cloven hoof – he fully depends on the sole ‘expressive’ technique of hands-as-snow-plough. The fact that he has the collapsible slack-jawed look of a stroke victim doesn’t help matters.

David Cameron is going to win the next election, even though we all know that, deep down, he’s a rancid maggot.

Gordon Brown’s crucial flaw is his Stalinistic stoicism. This is the end of Labour. He should have given up the ghost months ago and made way for someone younger and better looking. We were over the idea of Gordon Brown as Prime Minister way before Tony stepped down because of the relentless repetition of the open secret that they’d made ‘the deal’. It’s akin to fixing the outcome of X-Factor – it doesn’t seem right.

Rallying the wrinklies around him now is only making matters worse. For Margaret Beckett to say that “the British people will neither understand nor forgive a party that appears to be more concerned with its own internal disputes than with their very real problems” is a valiant attempt to nip a rebellion in the bud but comes a bit too late ‘cos the momentum seems already to have gathered. So, actually, this kind of statement foreshadows, even encourages, continued collapse. A decent shot but an own goal.

The very idea that the timing is inappropriate because the government needs to concentrate on minimizing the repurcussions of economic crisis doesn’t wash when they’ve all just been on summer holiday. Plus, politics isn’t about politics, it’s about drama! It’s the perfect fucking time for a rebellion. And most MPs are subconsciously tuned into this so Labour rebels won’t be able to resist the pull of a revolutionary stand-off especially because of the current climate. The argument will also stir up resentment because the feeling is that the current economic climate is being used as a shield, which seems weak.

I’ve got to confess that I’m interested in seeing what happens after the Tory government comes in. Historically, artistic communities are injected with a certain kind of verve under right-wing regimes. We might not benefit in terms of funding. If the economy is poor, fewer people might venture out to see us perform. But my own internal rebel is waking up and feeling the flush of inspiration. Some good work could come out of this.

And political activism at grass roots might also benefit. Government is currently a closed shop. Once there was the idea that a local MP served his/her constituents as a primary purpose, with loyalty to their party a context for this service – of secondary significance – and a broad loyalty to the chosen leader taking third place. Then Tony Blair came along and reversed it. Some would say Maggie Thatcher started it off. But the upshot was that the leader ended up coming first. Now that order sits badly, because no one likes the current leader, or at least no one thinks he’s any good.

No one really likes David Cameron, either. But he’s more polished. The net generation, though, are questioning why any of these gimps are in positions of power in the first place. And the public rage at being ignored in mass protests over Iraq hasn’t yet had an opportunity to fully vent itself. What could be more ironic than a completely undemocratic decision to declare war on a country in order that we might liberate it by making it ‘democratic’? We can all see this. And now we have the means with which to stand up and say it. Globally.

Governments and corporations are “locked in twentieth century thinking”, say Don Tapscott and Anthony Williams in Wikinomics (read it). The online masses are engaging in self-organization and reshaping the cultural landscape – look at how the music industry is in crisis; in twenty years, there probably won’t be any such thing as A & R – the big labels will just be licensing facilitators. Unless the bigwigs work out how to adapt to the technology that means the originators of content can increasingly be their own enablers and distributors. Creative people are starting to come together in groups and collectives. Why shouldn’t we also get creative with politics?

One-way monologues of duplicitous and manipulative construction are starting to struggle to be heard among increasing numbers of articulate voices in dialogue. If we suspect that a voice is out to dissemble us, we can reach out and share our critique with larger numbers of enquiring minds who are prepared to stand up and say, ‘Hang on a minute, Dave, you’re full of shit’. We’ve got an opportunity to redemocratize political discourse. In time, we could even reshape the foundations of government so that they become increasingly ‘open-sourced’. Willingness and participation are the first steps.

Lecture over. Everyone back to the dancefloor.

The Lipsinkers: Trannies on Tour from Dickie Beau on Vimeo.

And, as if by magic, by order of some cosmic act of buffoonery… no water in the pipes. Not in the kitchen, not in the lav, not the shower.

But there’s nothing to be done. The Council blamed Thames Water. Thames Water blamed the Council. Thames Water asked me to go out into the neighbourhood and canvass nearby buildings for analagous drought issues, because if I could find a neighbour in another building with no water they might accept that it’s their fault. I told them I can’t be seen in public without having had a shower. Deadlock. The Council are going to send someone out within four hours, by which time I might have turned into Pete Doherty.

Thank fuck for the lifeline that is the interweb, so that the world might continue to revolve around me, though my resurrection has had to be postponed as a ‘tomorrow problem’.

That’s me swimming in the middle with the white face. I’m either in ecstasy or it was caught at the moment David Hoyle’s elbow cracked my balls.

And if you’ve never danced in the moving fountains in front of the Royal Festival Hall in your undies at midnight, I highly recommend it. Bit cold, mind you.

And took her beautiful, wonderful life

We both found God.

But the thing that really struck a chord

Was the shame I felt when I got bored

With bereavement.