** Disclaimer: This blog post is offensive to almost everybody on the gay scene. Deal with it.
The Drag Queen
Drag queens come in two types. Funny… and that’s generally because they know they’ll never look anything remotely like a real woman. And Fierce… And take themselves WAY too seriously. But the one thing they have in common is that they all want fame. And clearly the ones that are doing panto at The Green Carnation have sets their sights as high as their kitten heels. Honey, that dress made of sequins is brighter than your future – enjoy calling out bingo numbers in a Brighton back alley boozer.
The term DJ is getting looser than Ashley Ryder’s hole. How is it now that any Tom, Dick or Andrew Moore can suddenly have a residency? OK, it’s only at East Bloc where most people are so off their face they wouldn’t notice if it was Janesha standing behind the decks banging some pots and pans. But still. As a DJ it’s crucial to think that you’re one of the most important people on the scene, even if you can’t mix properly or only ever get booked for that one gay bar in West London.
Spends more time in the medic room than she does at work. Well, when she can hold a job down that is. Her grooming routine isn’t complete without a white halo around her nose. But don’t judge this one too quickly, they’ll very often have interesting stories about how many days they can stay awake for. Which they’ll happily tell you over and over in the smoking area of Union. But on the plus side, as long as they’ve got a baggie in their hand they’ll have a abundance of confidence, and a reason to believe they’re relevant.
The Club Promoter
The job for all gays that have turned being a scene queen into “work”. Because they accept Facebook friend requests as easily as they accept drink vouchers, they believe they’re ‘popular’ – which makes up for the fact they were an overweight brace-faced misfit at school. Even if their friends list is made up of random people they’ve never met. But everybody loves them – if only when they want guest list. Of course they throw the best parties in the city, despite the fact they’d never be caught dead there if they weren’t being paid.
The Fag Hag
She will forever be loyal to her gays; which is probably why she’ll die alone. She thinks her fags are totally fierce, even when they’ve spent more time at the MAC counter than she has. Similarly, the gay will always think his hag is better than all the others – even when she turns up to Freedom Bar in wicker wedges and polka dots. Who dressed her, the Tweenies? He also believes that any other gay will love her. And we do… About as much a menstrual cramps. Real talk, unless she’s our bestie she might as well be Hitler. And if you bring her to a chill out, we’ll just be in the bathroom gargling razor blades.
The Bar/Club Owner
Bar and club owners are basically the old queens that haven’t found a boyfriend and moved to a naff seaside town or Gran Canaria to die. Therefore they cling on to the only thing that they know anything about; the scene. Because they’ve been out since 1872 and most of their friends died of AIDS, they’re allowed to look down on all the other gays. After surviving two World Wars and decades of bad hair cuts, they deserve it. Because they’re still alive (at the moment), it warrants them a Bette Lynch attitude dressed in M&S flannel shirts.
The East End “Fashionista”
Shorebitches can do no wrong in the fashion stakes. Double denim is so trendy. As is leopard print. Or any t-shirts with allusions to the illuminati. They won’t be caught dead at any commercial event – and when being alternative and kooky is so much cooler, can you blame them? They’re too bouji for a full-time job (unless acting like a stooshe bitch at Dalston Superstore counts as work), but you know they do a couple days a week in vintage clothing shop near Brick Lane, so they totally deserve that high-fashion status. Also if you don’t have a beard or an abundance of poorly designed tattoos, you can’t sit with them.
The bears are renowned to be one the friendliest cliques on the gay scene. Of course they are, because there’s nothing worse than a fat bitch. But if you’re fat and friendly you’ll totally have friends. The term “bear” of course derives from the grizzly animal, (not the camp cuddly teddies), even though the only person they can scare is their dietician. But even though they’re not far from pushing daisies, they’re beautifully humble towards the younger generation. Because they know one day they’ll have more hair on their protruding bellies than their heads too.
Ahh, before the novelty of being gay has worn off! He can totally get away with eyebrows more plucked than a Christmas turkey and twiglets poking out from those daisy dukes because he has youth (and hindsight) on his side. Still to learn that four layers of foundation and knowing the entire ‘Single Ladies’ routine won’t get her a man. Being relatively young means he doesn’t realise that his sweeping side fringe is as limp as his wrists. But fortunately he has a promising career as a hairdresser/waiter/barman.
The Muscle Mary
The bigger the muscles, the smaller their childhood trauma. After all beauty = validation, right? All size queens, and that goes for the biceps as well as the bulge. But it’s only natural to want to work harder on your appearance when you’re as interesting as a tray of cat litter and don’t know your five times tables. Still, at least if they look butch, they feel like less of a woman when they’re bent over a poorly put together Ikea table at the next sex party. Oh by the way, does squatting on cocks count as exercise?
But before I cackle uncontrollably and fly off on my broomstick, I wouldn’t take you bitches down without giving myself a slice of a truth cake too.
The “gay Carrie Bradshaw”? Pah, please. Carrie Bradshaw could afford to pay rent. And men actually dated her. Although she did consider herself a fashion icon even though half the time her outfits were bigger disasters than her relationships, so I guess they have that in common. Well that, and being the most self-absorbed/over-analytical person that ever lived. The blogger is way more important than any other writer; no ordinary diary would be enough – he has to put his life online to feel less insignificant.
If you feel like this blog post is one big stereotype, or that you don’t fit into any of these categories – CONGRATULATIONS! You’re even more of a drip than your lack of friends suggest.