Previously on Gays Of Our Lives...   Our average- looking, not too unpleasant hero, Gattino, went to Manchester with Andy and James to see 80's pop sensations..erm..I forget now...and on the way home was informed of his duty to attend the legendary Miss Glamorous Gay Wirral Pageant for down at (high) heel drag queens.  It seemed likely they'd be joined by Gattino's email chum and tragic street urchin Troy, who lives in Milton Keynes and has had his intimate parts pierced more often than the late Mrs. Brosnan.  The sad saga continues....              FAINTING WITH DAMN PRAISE   Having lost control of technology and watched my computer go "boom", I was obliged to track Troy down by phone a couple of days prior to the great event.  Which would be unworthy of comment but for my painfully embarrassing obsession with flippancy.  When a girl answered the phone and he explained it was his flatmate I found myself, for no known reason, saying "I thought it was your mother".   Which would not normally be a cause for instant self-mutilation if it weren't for the fact that Troy's mother is dead.  In tragic circumstances.  Oh God.  As the words came out of one end my bowels came out of the other in perfect synchronisation.  "Oh God , I - I didn't mean - I that was a terrib..I'm sorry..I..."  It could only have been worse if he hadn't quite heard me and asked me to repeat it.  As it happened he hadn't quite heard me and asked me to repeat it....     Troy couldn't come.     So it seemed I was to go alone with Andy and James.  I'm starting to feel like their adopted child.  Or pet monkey.  So I accompanied Daddy to Mummy's house in Birkenhead.   You know the one - the creepy castle on the hill I saw briefly when we all went to Chester.  Well this was the first time I saw the inside in detail.  Either James is a heroin dealer or his real name is Bruce Wayne.  He has no visible source of income yet lives in what can only be described as a half-mansion, whose six or 7 bedrooms, 3 stories, several bathrooms and living areas are stacked to the rafters with antique furniture and ornaments of every description. (Later, as I was stealing some silver, I came across a dusty old manuscript signed in blood.  Very curious...)     Anyhow it turned out we were not going to the soiree alone but were to be joined by 3 couples of their acquaintance - one lesbian and 2 male - who each finally arrived to be greeted, as all are, by James' gargantuan dog, Fanny (...),  burying it's face in their crotches.  I think it wants you to throw it a bone.  I very nearly did.  As for the couples, they were all delighful people and for once I have no trouble remembering their names.  They were all called Roger.  Especially the women.  Of the men their was the mature "Dirty laugh Roger" and his partner of 33 years "Oldest Roger", plus "Fairly flaming Roger" and his beau "Nick Heywood from Haircut 100".  Yes the very same chap I thought we were going to see in Manchester the other week when he was kidnapped and replaced by Purgatory 17, or whatever they were called.  And I was right about our Nick.  He has aged.  I was also warned that in him I'd met my "match " in the smutty comments department.  I suppose constantly asking me to feel his muscles (cunningly hidden beneath a layer of ribs) and show him my best friend could be construed as smut.  In response to the latter request I began to roll up the bottom of my trouser leg.  "I didn't say Sock..!" he protested.   Fool.  That's where I keep it.       And so off we set, stopping on the way to pick up a lovely - non gay - lady called Pam who was in charge of the judging.  She expressed her hope that "they" wouldn't boycott it this year, as apparently they were wont to do in protest that the same person kept winning it.  One year, she informed us, the protest took the form of the contestants all turning up dressed as "Black Mammies".  Lordy, lordy.  I'm starting to believe Lewis Carroll must have moved in the same social circles as me.  I don't know what's sane any more.       And so, what was it like?  Er..not quite the Hollywood spectacular I'd had in mind.  The venue was a hotel function room, with a bar area with a dozen beer-mat strewn tables adjoining a mini ball room with tables around the edges.   The kind of place Kitty and George might hold their Ruby Wedding do - when it's not being used by the Local over-50's Ladies darts club or a Bingo Gala.  As  for the main event - well, I remember laughing.  I remember squealing and cheering.  I remember shaking my head in amazed amusement (not to mention amused amazement).  But in the sober light of day I have to reflect that it was the tackiest, crappiest thing I've ever witnessed.  I can think of no more perfect summary of the whole spectacle than the casual observation of "Oldest Roger" when, earlier, he pointed out one of the fully dragged up participants at the bar and said, quite accurately,  "Look, she trying to be a lady - she's drinking her pint through a straw."   And she was.  I imagine Princess Grace would have done the same...     And the contest?  When it finally came there were about 9 entrants, only 3 of whom had bothered very much - the others seeming not quite to have gotten the hang of it.   Wearing a wig does not in itself constitute succesful drag - especially when you're stomping around like you're wearing army boots.  The whole thing only lasted about 10 minutes, and they were called back 15 minutes later for the results.  It was presided over by a little man with swept over hair and a moustache, wearing a spangly purple jacket.  He appeared to have given up his day job of modelling for saucy seaside postcards along side fat women.  There was also an old man in a kilt.  (Don't ask. I don't know.)  The naming of the winners was nonetheless hysterical.  God knows what came over me but my normal intense butchness melted away and I found myself clasping my hands to my face like the screamingest of queens:  something I wasn't aware of until a very camp sounding man behind me told me off for being so limp wristed.  Ahem.  I quickly got back in touch with my masculine side...     The third place went to the "usual" winner, apparently - Tony/"Dolores Del Rio" (?) - a rather hefty gentleman in a spectacular outfit but with a head so large it required the fleece of an entire sheep to make his wig.  I could see it's legs hanging out at the back.  I'm not entirely convinced it was dead.  The winner, in a huge Las Vegas show girl number, was a skinny foul mouthed bitch (She asked me if I'd ever heard of a comb.  Anyone who insults my hair requires a swift death.) who was a friend of "Nick Heywood".  Earlier she'd passed our table and he asked to see her knickers.  She obliged.  I don't know where the hell "he" hid what nature gave him but by christ he deserved an oscar for special effects.  I've seen a bigger bulge on a glass of water.  However what is most of note is that both these ladies drew flattering attention to yours truly and his appearance.  Gosh, if only I had any modesty I'd have blushed.  But that's my problem, you see..I'm too used to it.     Many of you must ask "Why do you fancy yourself so much, Lawrence?"  and my only reply can be "Ain't it frigging obvious?"  I may be aware of my limitations in the supermodel department, but no-one else appears to be (Attila - shut your trap.).  The simple fact is I can't look up in any gay venue without finding some dog-faced mutant or twenty staring at me, chatting about me, giving me the eye, doing a double take etc.  I'm fabulous in poor lighting conditions and this night they must have had a black out because I was aware of many individuals looking my way - not one of them worth looking at - or squeezing past me suggestively.  I say this not to boast but for reasons I'll come to soon....But like I say finding someone I could look at in the same way is a different prospect.  It's harsh but I figure if I can be this goodlooking so can others.  It's just fucking laziness on their part.     Well as it happened "Nick Heywood" (I think his name was Stuart.  Or Roger.  But I don't want to confuse you.) seemed to know everyone there and made it his business, as much through mischief as through generosity, to try and pair me off - stopping and grabbing every Single of his aquaintance to inform me of their availability - and they of mine.  I made the mistake of acknowledging that one, Craig, was indeed perfectly decent looking.  I didn't get the chance to add that he wasn't the type to cause an instant swelling in my gusset, however.  So before you knew it I was in the nightmare scenario of this bastard, plus Andy and every other "Hello Dolly" wannabe, going back and forward to find out what Craig thought of me, presumably implying I was interested in him.  Apparently he thought I was gorgeous.  So what's new?  (I'm irritating you now, aren't I??)  It ain't enough - yet now every time I looked up Craig was smiling a winning smile at me.  Oh dear.  To make it worse I kept getting told what a nice person he is - which is true - and that he was in the market for a boyfriend.  So looking at him felt like encouragement and not looking (or looking at one of my other introductions)  felt like cruel rejection.  And when I finally spoke to him we were beset by our matchmakers and anyone else in the line of vision grinning suggestively and smugly at their achievement and what a lovely couple we were going to be.  Well I'm sorry but my dick is not  a democracy.  I don't have erections by referendum.     And that's the nub of it.  Returning home to the Manor House in the wee small hours James declared his unmitigated disgust at me, for still being with them (I try not to take these things personally) when  "You could have had your pick of anyone there.  They were all at your feet!" This was not said with great cheer.  Why didn't I go with Craig - he was "gorgeous" (..er..)?  And that other bloke I said was quite nice was desparate for me.  He was?!  Apparently he'd been looking at me and discussing me with intense interest with "Nick Heywood" just a few feet away from me.  Behind my back.  Amidst the noise.  While I was doing something else.  Why I wasn't therefore totally aware of it was another source of mystery and condemnation.  And oh yes, someone else - a stranger - had approached James to introduce him to me.  "So why didn't you??!"   He said ..sorry, he lied.. "I tried".  When?  Now all of these revelations would have been immensly gratifying except that James was staring at me across the kitchen table with such intensity, demanding to know what I was afraid of.  Eh?  Apparently I have deep emotional problems.  "But I didn't fancy anyone."  No that wasn't it.  There's something wrong with me.  Oh.  Andy took himself off to bed as I went round in ever decreasing circles trying to figure out what the hell his boyfriend was going on about.  It was hard to figure out whether he was most disturbed at me not sleeping with someone I didn't fancy, or at me not sharing his taste.  (The latter is less a crime and more a service to humanity.)  At one point, rather in contradiction to his assertions that I was the Belle of the Ball, he casually reminded me (presumably by way of warning that I can't afford to be fussy, what with time passing and all)  that I was "Average looking, and quite nice"   Eeek!!! I went off him right there.  Telling me I'm average looking is rather like telling Stevie Wonder he's black - it may be fucking obvious to everyone else but the shock could kill.     The secret, you see, of James' new persona was right there on his face.  He's grown a beard.  One of those sideless ones widely and wrongly referred to as a goatee - you know, the type beloved of George Michael, Italian footballers circa 1989 and all homosexuals of a certain age (like I said, George Michael).  Only in James' case the role model was altogether more personal.  A mysterious, slightly satanic professor of the occult from any 1960's Hammer Horror movie.  He sat analysing me, crying out for a silver streak in his hair, a pipe in his mouth and someone to take him seriously.  I could supply none of the above.  A skirt does not make you a woman and a beard does not make you an intellect.     He told me I needed to enhance my Gaydar because people were broadcasting their interest on FM and I was only tuned into AM, so wasn't receptive to their signals.  At this point I started to broadcast on FO, but he wasn't receptive either.  I  tried a different tack - fornesic disection of his remarks with my razor sharp mind.  "Er, what d'ya mean, like?"  I said.  That floored him.  I'm not joking.  Such challenging analysis as that left him confused.  "I think you're a very clever manipulator of the conversation" he declared, when he couldn't answer me.  I am?  He's right.  I was wasted in this life - I should have joined the Gestapo, with my unique interrogation techniques.  "So, er, tell me mate -when's the invasion?"  "Oh god, no stop it!  You inhuman fiend, with your devilish tricks - I'll tell you everything!!  6 June, Normandy - bring a packed lunch."     When somehow I escaped at 3 or 4 in the morning,  I retreated to bed and in the still dark of the night I wondered if he was right.  I looked deep inside the core of my being to inquire what soul destroying angst was driving me on, what forgotten pain and inner turmoil had lead me to this state of searing loneliness:   Could I really be afraid of love and pain and commitment?  And the answer came to be like a blaze of lightning out of that dark secret place where my inner child dwells, alone and afraid.  And in a voice trembling with thunder it said, "Ah, fuck off."     And, do you know, I couldn't agree more.