I don't wear a veil myself (unless you count Peter Mandelson's Christmas party . . . )
Adoption is all the rage. Imagine being plucked from a life of poverty and adopted by Madonna. I hope Guy Ritchie realises how lucky he is. I, too, have been caught up in this new trend. I’ve offered to adopt the fiery Scottish Parliament MP Tommy Sheridan. A few early nights for my boy, I think. Not to mention a good wash and some elocution lessons. And, although I object to corporal punishment, if he keeps on about being a working-class Scottish socialist I shall, for his own good, slap his legs – and if his trousers are down at the time that’s just too bad. I’ll do anything for my Tommy. Apart from have eye contact or pay his dentist’s bills.
Anyone who’s anyone has mental health problems these days. These are best revealed as a “secret agony”. If you haven’t had a love-rat husband or an eating disorder, you can always tap in to the public sympathy tank with a bit of mental anguish. Marilyn Monroe started the trend. How could she be so beautiful yet so troubled? Stephen Fry so clever but so agonised? Alastair Campbell so powerful yet tortured? The press jumps on these stories because they all carry the unspoken reassurance that the reader may be ugly, stupid and ineffectual, but at least we are, if not blissfully happy, then happier than those miserable famous types in the paper.
This line of inquiry particularly appeals to journalists interviewing comedians - "Tears of a clown" and so on. And if you're a Daily Mail journalist interviewing a gay comedian it's virtually compulsory. I have been persuaded, simply for the price of a lunch at the Ivy, to spill my own misery beans: I, too, was once unable to drag myself out of bed for a fortnight. Admittedly, that had more to do with the oversexed Brazilian I had on the go at the time, but I saw no need to spoil a good story. I've also been known to roll out tales of school bullying, dead gay lovers or even, if dessert and brandy are being stretched to, my battle with anal warts.
We used to enjoy seeing our celebs happy before it all turned to tears, but those days are gone. Why, a current X Factor contestant (and therefore would-be household name) only auditioned because it was her dying mother's last wish. Fancy! Now we can have the agony first and allow our instant celebs their happy moment later on if we feel up to it. Ideally, they will have a miserable childhood behind them and a failed career ahead, soon to be followed by several unhappy marriages and, if all goes well, drug addiction and a violent death in a trailer park somewhere near Maidstone. Boy George fulfils all our fantasies in this respect - from pop icon to druggy street sweeper. Yet, he rises above it all, refusing to play the game, or, at any rate, defiantly enjoying the game of life.
I don't wear a veil myself (unless you count Peter Mandelson’s Christmas party), but I’ve always thought they were rather sexy and mysterious, not to mention an effective form of sunblock. So I learned with dismay that such fashions are in fact oppressive obstacles to sexual equality and the integration of our delightfully multicultural society.
Analysing foreign culture with western values is always a mistake. It's a shame no one can admit we don't understand such matters any more than my grandmother understood punk rock. Surely, being integrated doesn't mean we all have to dress in Dorothy Perkins.
In the gay world, as Boy George pointed out this week, there are all types. "I'm not vanilla," he reassured us. "I'm a fag." I think I'm a vanilla fag, but let's not get into all that. My point is that we're integrated in Gayland but we don't all wear Lycra shorts. Nor do I think it demeaning to walk five paces behind your man. I always did with my last boyfriend. Even when he thought I was at home. He was a bit of a rogue, you understand. How else could I be sure he wasn't cheating on me?
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