Looke-Likey Alert!

Look what I just found!!

Monica Galetti’s Doppleganger!

Monica Galetti Look-alike

How exciting.

Now bye. I must test my app.

Hastings in Exile

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While in exile from the ex (the ex has a family member visiting) I decided to visit my long neglected Great Aunts.

They are mighty forces, great old school bawa ladies who’ve been living here since the 1930′s & 40′s when they were nurses and doctors. They have about 80 years of bawa family gossip in store.

It’s pretty good stuff. Apparently my family had a scandalous elopement and some ‘uncle-niece’ incest. All hush-hush. Although according to Kardo and Sadi ‘Uncle-niece’ is not incest. (They are both Muslims. Need I say more? And people say the bawas are inbred. Hah.)

Every time I go to Hastings I seem to lose most of the Saturday in traveling. Last time there was a malfunction at Tonbridge Wells (of all the backwater places – such a London snob aren’t I?) and I was trapped in transit for over 7 hours.

By the time I reached Hastings it was nearly 8 o clock and I was shattered.

This time The Aunts drove down from London and it took 4 hours. So I suppose I’m making progress.

We stopped at a Guju store somewhere near Stratford, where I promptly bought 5 packs of boondi, a box of khandvi, and 2 kulfies that I ate straight away and was promptly car sick all the way back to Hastings.

Those were some pretty good kulfies.

The sun shone brightly all Saturday and Sunday. I went for frequent walks by the parks and the woods around my aunts place to smoke discreetly. Then I lay in the sun in my aunt’s garden. They spoiled me rotten all weekend in really the most atrocious way.

There was some amazing bawa food, (I can’t remember the name) some bhel for dinner and lots of mangoes.

They also insisted on buying my return ticket to london. I love relatives who refuse to acknowledge that you are now a full-grown person. On the way to the main Station my aunt very nearly drove into a Shuttle Bus. He promptly swore at her. She was a bit shaken up, poor thing.

I read a Barbara Cartland yesterday on the way back home from visiting my Great Aunt in Hastings. (I carried 5 with me, just in case  by some awful occurrence I ran out.)

The heroine in the novel is a bitch so she’s kidnapped by a scorned lover, taken to an island, held hostage and raped repeatedly over 10 days.

Then she eventually escapes only to realise that she’s ‘in love’ with her captor.

Barb darling, are you fucking kidding me??

I mean, what the fuck?? Seriously, how the fuck am I supposed to buy into that? THIS IS NOT WHAT I SIGNED UP FOR!!!

She just messed up my brain all day. I mean really.

Rape does not = romance.

I’m quite traumatized now.

Gay Pride – First Weekend Of Exile

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Ah the irony of going to gay pride while in exile. A4 relished pointing this out to me.

I’m not as irate as I was last year about the enforced exile because it was for a much shorter space of time and the ex didn’t require me to remove all my worldly goods from the flat. I can’t imagine how I’d lug all those Barbara Cartland’s around. (I’m up to about 400 now.)

So this time I just hit the road, whistling a little tune, with a red-spotted scarf tied on a stick and the clothes on my back.

I’m living like a bachelor in A4′s lovely Camden flat, Eating ready meals and living out of a suitcase.

A4 has a terribly comfy spare room.

The ex called me on the first or second day of exile to ask me, innocently,

“So…where are you sleeping?”

“Haw! Shame on YOU!”

“No no.. I just wanted to know, are you on a couch or spare room…”

I really should learn to play coy better and string that along a little,

“Oh well, you know….the couch was so uncomfortable and it was a little chilly at night…so A4 and co let me CUDDLE RIGHT UP between them”

You know, play it out a little bit.

This is my first ever London Gay pride parade viewing.

I had never bothered before, and quite frankly I was quite right not to.

Limp, scraggly groups representing charities (Youth Groups and Student Unions), dry corporations (Nandos & British Airways of all things) and political parties walking by (Handing out little round stickers with ‘Never kissed a Tory’ on them).

Lackluster to say the least. A4 having seen many parades was throughly unimpressed.

The highlight of the parade was the Army, Navy and Air-force regiments marching in their uniforms. A girl to the left of us spent the entire time leaning over the barrier, hollering at the top of her voice,

“GET YER KIT OFF! GO ON, GET IT OFF! SHOW US YER TITS! GET YER KIT OFF!”

It was funny the first few times.

Then it became mighty irritating.

A troupe of drag queens style a la Gaga (of vice versa depending on your point of view) marched up wearing bright pink frocks with helium balloons holding up voluminous platinum blonde wigs.

Following them was the Geriatric Gays. A tranny with no teeth was grinning broadly. (I’m suppressing any urge to make some cheap innuendo here. I just want you to know that.)

They loved the girl asking them to take their kit off.

I then went to visit my own gay in Oval, who just came back from a 6 month jaunt in Bombay. Lucky bastard.

On my way back to Camden I saw this sign on the Tube at Kings X.

Lesbians! Thats all you need to know!

What a fucking poster!

I think all posters should be designed along these lines.

Think how simple it would be. Just a broad politically incorrect sweep.

Ps- The Candy Bar Girls TV show is beyond dull.

The Quest Continues

Lesbianswholooklikejustinbieber

In the continued quest to discover the hidden (from me) lesbian world of London, A4 and I decide to pay a visit to Trash Palace.

This wasnt the Trash Palace of yore –  a cosy little nook, hidden in a lane near Leicester square (where Waxy’s Little Sister is), but it’s reincarnation on Old street.

I don’t know why they would move to Old Street. On the map it wasn’t really that close to Shoreditch and Hoxton. It was on Old Street road, near many print shops offering large-scale scanning. (Must remember to call and see if they scan A1 and get costing.)

I have vaguely fond memories of Trash Palace. I went there on a date once with a semi-androgynous blonde. I wasn’t particularly keen and they played music so loud it was impossible to have a conversation.

So we made out for about two hours. (In front of everyone, so shameless – We weren’t even secreted in some corner. I’m mildly embarrassed thinking about it now.)

Then we both got on the tube. I lost all interest immediately and went home.

Never saw that person again.

Ah, good times.

The tube has always been a mojo killer for me. Those fluorescent lights (never flattering), forced to make awkward conversation (because even I am not so shameless to make out on the tube in front of random drunken louts) while travelling to some hole of a stop in zone 2/3/4 for 20 mins. There is no way sex can happen after that.

There far too much time to reflect and reconsider.

I usually reconsider.

The only way sex can happen is if you take a cab and it takes less than 10 mins to get there. If possible, make out in the cab.

So A4 and I are walking up and down Old Street, in a biting wind, looking for this place. My jacket has a high collar, so I squash my furry purple hat down on my head and yank up collar up above my nose. I manage to hold it there by keeping my shoulders shrugged in a very uncomfortable way. All you can see are my eyes. I think this is a look I want to cultivate. I wish they’d make a jacket that had a collar that went over your head but had peep holes for your eyes.

Anyway, so we are walking, we are walking. There seems to be no sign of this place.

A4 fortunately has gmaps on a second-hand iPhone. All I have is my keen sense of direction.

We get to the end of the street, google map is clearly pointing to a bar that is:

1. Called something like ‘Noma’ except I can’t be sure because the font they used is one of those curly ones. Entirely illegible.

2. Not remotely ‘gay’ looking

2. Seems closed.

Perhaps google maps is wrong. Lets look on their website.

Website (an annoying Flash nonsense of a site) showed exactly the same thing.

So I asked 2 boys in a car if they knew where it was

“Yea. We do. Want to get in?”

“Uhm… no thanks.”

So we wandered up and down for ages before we headed back to Angel. A4 wanted to go to Shoreditch but the ex called me mildly irritated that we were lost and A4 was sympathetic enough to know that partners ought to be placated.

So I think we went to the Green again. In a way, I rather enjoy these gay quest failures.

They add a certain sense of adventure to drinking.

I’m not sure where Trash Palace is now. I don’t dare look for it again.

I only just found this site lesbianswholooklikejustinbieber and I realised I way behind the lesbian times.

I really need to get my posse together quickly.

Profile. Gay.

It's pretty when its empty. But then, I think that about all places.

One of the ex’s friends had a birthday party at Profile in Soho. Baffling choice for a girl. The bar was gay central – If you like Muscle Marys and shirtless bar tenders.

The entrance to the bar, which was essentially a 10 foot corridor (see photo on right) fitting on a handful of cramped tables had people sitting down eating a full dinner to the seriously loud and shady techno music the DJ was playing. The DJ was loving his music. He was so hot for himself, he couldn’t believe it.

This was not my kind of gay bar. It got very crowded ,very fast, mostly with men who looked like someone had inflated them with a bicycle pump. That probably didn’t help either. Burly men take up far too much room. I think bouncers ought to take that into account when doing a head count.

I got fed up pretty soon into the evening, once the place got packed. Unfortunately I was duty bound to stick around, at least for a bit longer.

To entertain myself I played little games with myself. It was hard to hold a conversation in there. We were standing right next to the speakers and the self-lovin’ DJ.

I tried imagining I was a gay man. Would this bar be cock heaven? Would I just wander around with my penis bursting from the seams, reading to pounce on any bloke for a little bum-bum? Would I be having a good time? Would I go for the weedier, skinny guys or the big ol’ burly ones?

I think if I was gay I’d probably be into bears. I don’t like burly men who are hairless – It looks unnatural. A big beard and many tattoos. Hot. Maybe some kind of ex-con.

I really love that novel Maurice, by E.M. Forrester. It’s a great gay love story. A repressed Englishman bonks the young under-gamekeeper. (I love the term ‘Under Gamekeeper’. Anyone doing that job is begging to be bonked.) It has a happy ending. I love happy endings, especially in gay fiction. Leave the unhappy endings for real life.

Gay men largely seem to get better love stories. I stopped reading female gay fiction after a while. It just got too depressing and in a way even the L Word is depressing. Everyone is constantly bitching, back stabbing or cheating. Nothing good ever happens and if it does, you know it can’t last. I can’t handle that kind of stress and disappointment in my fantasy life. At least that should go smoothly.

Speaking of sex, A4 sent me to her friends blog who writes (or at least wrote) about homo-sex. It has only has 11 posts, but man, they blew my mind. I’ve read some gay fiction, but the ones I read partly intellectualized all the sex. This blog is just hunting for the sex, having the sex and then writing the sex. I honestly can’t imagine thinking about sex, sex, sex all the time. Or having that much sex (without even turning a profit.)

While I was there I also had an epiphany about a new kind of chandelier for gay bars. I was looking at a disco ball rotating gently above my head (this is how bored I get at clubs, which is why I’ve never really enjoyed clubbing) and the lights reflecting off it reminded me of chandeliers. Then I thought how great would it be to have a giant chandelier, but made from thousands of small rotating disco balls instead of the individual crystals.

God I was really bored at this club. I told the ex I was going to go soon, of course they didn’t have to come home with me.

The ex was drinking wine and was already a bottle in. Not good. Not good at all. I knew I needed to exit and fast unless I wanted another failed drunk management strategy on my hands.

The ex didn’t want me to leave right away, so I strategized and used sex as a lure.

It worked.

I’m not ashamed.

Boys Beware!

“One when never knows when the homosexual is about. He may appear normal, and it may be too late when you discover he is mentally ill.”

Gosh! Well I’d better keep an eye open for those dangerous homosexuals….

Stoke Newington: The New Mecca

Posse

I hardly have any gay friends, especially girl gay friends. It’s a lifetime tragedy but I’m working on it. I’d ideally like to cultivate an ‘L Word‘ style posse. (I’ve already got MaM, who has a flourishing gay posse, that I like to imagine flutter around her in constant attendance. I’m not a big enough fan of the L word to be able to classify her according to the characters. I just call her gay-bait.)

I have a few boy gay friends, but its hard to get them to go with you to girly bars. If you whine enough they might reluctantly be your wing-man, but give it barely 30 mins and they will tut, toss their flowing locks and say,

“No one is paying me any attention here! OMG I need constant bhav please! I’m off to find some juicy hot cock! See yas! Toodles and so long, you’re on your own girlfriend, Byee-e!”

Maybe they’ll do that snap and Z thing. (I can never do it right, I’m really not ghetto enough.) Anyway off they flounce. Fucking annoying ditchers.

I’m bored with boy centric gay bars; I still enjoy them of course, but the novelty has worn off. But there seem to be far fewer girly bars in London and I think they are not as successful as Heaven or G-A-Y which seem to be male dominated. I have a theory about why this is. It’s a theory totally unsubstantiated by facts or cold hard stats. But that’s never stopped me before.

I was once on my way to the Candy Bar with a couple of friends, and this girl’s girlfriend called her and said,

“If you go to the Candy Bar, I am breaking up with you.”

This threat obviously upset the girl enough to make her go home promptly, to the summons of the imperious, overly jealous spouse. I guess the spouse felt threatened by the bar. Specifically a girly bar.

My ex flat-mate however, who is also has a spouse, goes to Heaven practically every Friday/Saturday night just to meet his jing. He said it was just like going down to the local pub. A pub with sweaty, shirtless men, dancing in tight-tight chaddies.

So my conclusion is (I learned you have to do this from my dissertation: You say ‘My conclusion is…’ then you talk utter nonsense) … that girls are more threatened by bars on the assumption that you’d only go there because you’re on the prowl. Boys don’t care either way. Maybe that’s explains why girly bars are more sporadic. Well, that’s my theory anyway.

On a Friday night couple of weeks ago, A4′s suggested we go to Stoke Newington to investigate this lesbian pub called the Oak Bar. So yay, let’s go!

Big mistake.

They say you should learn from your mistakes and I learned 2 things from this mistake.

1. Never go to Stoke Newington just for one solitary gay pub. Aim for a place with multiple back-up bars in the same vicinity.
2. Never go to Stoke Newington.

I had heard that Stoke Newington is the new lesbian mecca. Everyone says so.

I can tell you right now, based on Friday night that it is a categorical scam just to entice the gays to Stoke Newington. A cheap, low-down scam. There is nothing in Stoke Newington. Ok, so there was a junk shop full of the usual tat and I love tat. But that’s it.

The second mistake I made was to take the ex with me. The ex enjoys well organised, well planned events. Everything must fall into line, all according to schedule. This is why the ex is so efficient in life and why I am largely incompetent and constantly getting lost.

The ex and I got lost because I made another mistake about when to get off the bus. We only realised when the ex’s iPhone geo-locator showed us quickly speeding down the wrong road. Then as soon as we got off the bus we had a fight. A really pointless fight. About cake. I’m not joking. The fight was about cake, Birthday cake to be precise. In the past I have bought birthday cakes (I didn’t this year, hence fight), only for the ex to pick at a tiny sliver and then promptly bin them. The ex said I should buy better cakes. Then I argued that the ex would hate all the cakes because the ex doesn’t like icing. The ex baked a cake once and I was excited because wow, fresh home-made cake! Then I was told,

“I’m not making icing because I hate icing on a cake.”

What kind of cake has no icing??? So I didn’t eat that cake. Then I brought this up as an example of how I’d never find a suitable birthday cake that the ex would eat. The ex said if I bought better cakes it would get eaten.

Fascinating argument no? But seriously, what kind of cake has no icing? A cake without icing is just a semi-sweetish bread. It’s not cake!

Then the ex said

“I’m not coming to this stupid bar. I’m going home.”

In the past I would have tried to beg, plead, whine or coerce the ex into staying. But I have learnt from the error of my youthful ways that if someone says ‘I’m going’, just let them. No drama-shama. Say bye, chalo tata and it’ll be better than some emo show-down.

“Fine! Go then! Whatever! Thanks for ruining my evening!”

I said, somewhat dramatically, then I stalked off to find this fucking bar.

I finally found the Oak bar. It wasn’t far from where we got lost and I turn to see the ex following me at a distance. (Hah!)

I was expecting a nice little gay pub, comfy with soft couches yet still sleek (as a gay bar ought to be) and packed to the brim with homos. So I peek inside – The place is barren. It had 4 uninteresting looking ‘blokes’, 1 straight looking girl, another behind the bar and a very old, fat man hovering about. Worst of all it reeked of the ghosts of drunkards past and years of cumulative split beer, layered on all the woodwork in this joint. A real mood killer of a stink. They really needed to invest in some air freshener.

A4 hadn’t arrived yet due to tube problems. Then A4 also got hopelessly lost. BECAUSE THIS BAR IS IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING NOWHERE!

During this time the ex took one little sniff of the pub and bailed promptly. I had expected it. The ex isn’t hanging about some smelly, bloke-filled pub in Stoke Newington. I stood outside the pub in the cold smoking 5 cigarettes one after another because it made me uncomfortable to wait in a practically empty pub alone and I felt obliged to do something while standing outside.

Eventually A4 showed up, and just because we had trekked so far we dutifully went in and hoped something would happen – maybe a whole cruise liner of drag queens would show up. At about 9 we almost thought something might happen because someone in fancy dress (slutty fairy) walked in. We hopefully expected more to follow, but only 2 more arrived (Slutty Wonder woman and another slutty fairy) and they all joined the blokes. So we gave up and left.

We wandered around the junk shop on the way back to the bus top and A4 ate a pizza. I had a plum tart in my bag left-over from lunch and we ate that too. We finally headed back to civilization and went to The Green to dull the edge of the disappointment of the Oak bar. A palate cleanser if you will. Ah! At last; wall-to-wall mirrors, camp, disdainful bar staff and Gaga hits blaring – now this is a gay bar.

But don’t worry I didn’t come home entirely empty-handed. I found a place in Stoke Newington that was selling lychees so I got very excited and bought a couple of kilos (I love lychees and I hadn’t had them in years).

So the moral of the story folks is that lychees are better than lesbians.

The end

Ladies Night

Note: I’m so back-dated on my posts that I’m still writing about Bombay, even though I’ve been in London for nearly a month. But regardless…

In my quest to find Mumbai-chi lesbians I coerced Riddhi and J to come with me to the ‘Ladies Night’ at Firangi Pani. Ladies night, from 8:00 pm to 9:30 pm, advertised free drinks for all girls.

Apparently this draws all the lesbians like moths to a flame. (At least this is what I had heard, hence my coercing J to take me there.)

First Riddhi insisted we needed to go with Lovebunny to the middle of nowhere, to pick up a free pizza. It took us an hour to get there and back. Riddhi drove back while Lovebunny ate and gave a running commentary on Riddhi’s driving. I sat in the back listening to an Adele song on repeat. I’m not sure why we did this chakkar instead of just going somewhere for a drink while Lovebunny went to pick up his pizza. I’m sure there was a reason, but I never understood it.

We finally get to Firangi Pani, just as the Ladies night-time slot was ending (slot is such a dirty word, especially in the context of ‘ladies night’). Three more women turn up to join us (yay).

The place is disappointing. It’s gloomy and enclosed. The DJ is playing soft rock very, very loudly. Riddhi grows to hate the DJ. He was playing Nickleback and Green Day I can’t say I really blame her…(Ok look don’t tell Riddhi but after a drink or two I quite like Nickleback). There were no discernible lesbians in sight and worst of all, you couldn’t smoke.

There is no terrace for smoking, only a small room in a corridor, much like a dentist’s waiting room, with two bland black couches and some tables. There is a match box with only 3 matches in it on the table. There are two tall, industrial sized ash trays. The room reeks of stale smoke. There are large glass doors facing a lady’s toilet. At least the Ladies night theme is consistent.

The majority of the women a la FP’s Ladies Night seem to be camped in the smoking room. As were we, for most of the evening. Dreary as it was, it was better than the inside of Firangi Pani. J and I think we have spotted at least one lesbian (in the smoking room because that was where the party’s at yo). We are very excited. Yes that’s right, that’s how lame we are.

When we all run out of drink coupons (4 each) we give up on the lesbian hunt and bounce to Bonobo. At least you can smoke and drink simultaneously. At Bonono we play sex Antakshari (you name sex related things instead of songs) for an hour, because in our old age we can’t go anywhere without playing a game.

J keeps appending words in front of the word ‘pussy’ for various letters. ‘Y’ – ‘yummy pussy’, S – sweet pussy, H – hot pussy, and so on. She really likes to say pussy. She lengthens and really drawls out the word ‘pussy’.

‘Yummmmmmy Puuuuuusssssssssy’, like so. With relish. I begin to wonder if she likes it a bit too much.

Eventually we leave and go back to the garden to wind up the night (or is it wind down? You wind up a yo-yo, but then a wind-up toy eventually winds down….I’m confused. And English is my first language).

We sit around smoking and drinking, trying to zap mosquitos with my brother’s electric racket. J, the reigning Queen of the electric racket, nails them every time. Sometimes twice . *wink wink nudge nudge*

Riddhi forces us to play more games. She has become some gaming demon. There is always at least one board games in her purse so at 2 am in the semi-dark, we are playing a variety of games (which is the best time to play really). I got into it and now I have an intense desire to play cards while drinking.

I learned how to play Shithead, Icall, Mongoose , Masala Uno and Sequence. I’ve never had such a solid repertoire. But if you’re not careful, Riddhi will start yelling if you break any of the arbitrary rules of that particular game.

“THE RULES SAY NO TALKING! NO TALKING!!”

“YOU CAN’T PLAY THAT! IT’S CHEATING!!”

or

“IF YOU DON’T PICK A CARD YOU FORFEIT YOUR CARD!”

She is rather Fascist about game play (which I secretly enjoy).

My evenings in Bombay usually end with a stint in the garden. I like to soak up as much of the garden as possible while I can. London is such an ice box that I probably will be wearing sweaters and double socks well into June.

It’s also a very comforting way to end an evening and if you’re really lucky you might win a few rounds of cards.

Never Throw Stones Beta

R is for...Rocks

Based on A4′s sterling recommendation, R. & I decide to take a loafing chakkar to this “pink rupee friendly” shop called Azaad Bazaar in Macapau central (Bandra), the only gay shop in the village.

If you happen to live with your folks in Bombay and if you plan on engaging in non-PG rated activities, you have to go somewhere where granny, auntie, uncle and third cousin brother won’t see you. The somewhere is the problem. Everywhere has people and people are annoying.

So R. drives, this is a pretty good solution, barring the traffic. You are enclosed in a portable room with music and air-conditioning. We painstakingly drive through garage gully, which has a wedding party moving at snail’s pace across the road.

The bride looks oldish. She is fat and is wearing jade greens and bright reds while walking under the usual bridal umbrella. She faintly resembled a bejeweled, decorated toad under a creamy mushroom.

I point out the toad-bride gleefully and R. viciously suggests all weddings in Bombay ought to be and should be banned. Additionally all people who cause traffic jams, even for a minute, shall be thrashed.

Bombay traffic is like the wild wild west. There are no rules but the rules made by the brave. If your car can survive a car crash, you win. I once knew a guy who carried a big stick in his car, just to beat up people who cut him. This guy was, clearly, a psychopath, but nonetheless a psychopath with a driver’s license.

I can’t drive, so it all seems quite stressful. You know yelling, gesturing at taxi drivers, mader chods and fuck you’s all the time. My danda is bigger than your danda.

R. says I need stones. Big stones.

But I only have small, small pebbles. So maybe I’ll never drive.

Speaking of pebbles and stones, we drive past the ‘Rambo Circus’, the event du jour in Bombay (aprox. Rs. 500 per ticket). R. suggests we visit and chuck rocks at them. There is an elephant in captivity and they make it perform humiliating tricks. I’m with R. on this, in sentiment, but I have no stones to be running about throwing stones. That’s her boyfriends job.

Rambo Circus, Elephant oppressors

So instead I offer R. a Christmas present of a bag of large rocks. I tell her I’ll monogram them, I’ll paint them in rainbow colours. She can chuck them at taxis, rickshaws, wedding processions, cheap circuses, anything she likes. Her victims will look down and see this rainbow rock with a mobile number and name, maybe a slogan

“Apake pat’thara hai kaphi bada?”

It’ll be a great calling card. R. will be infamous. Notorious. I think this is an excellent idea. For some reason R. rejects my kind offer. She only will throw anonymous stones.

Later I see a rick which has “RIDDHI” written on the back of it. I’m very happy. It’s a sign. A sign that she should throw a rock at it. Again she refuses. She loves to say no to me.

We finally get to Azbaz, which is a cute, tiny shop full of rainbow coloured items and T-shirts with slogan. There’s a little curtained corner outside where you can help yourself to tea/coffee and sit and chill.

A4 spoke of fields and fields of baby dykes hanging out there. Baby dykes with cropped hair and leather wrist cuffs, low slung jeans and quiffs, full of love-lorn angst and bravado drinking coffee and eyeing each other up.

A4 also mentioned that 5pm-6pm was the best time to visit since most college students were done by then. We were unfortunately (stupid traffic) unpunctual and missed our time slot. There wasn’t even a single, teeny-tiny baby dyke in sight. Not the one.

We were going to sit there but R. wanted to ‘send it’ and I’m too paranoid to be doing that in an open public space. Right at that moment a bunch of gays turned up so we bounced. (check out my Bombay lingo. Aren’t I ‘hip’?)

Maybe I should use the Azbaz notice board “Wanted: Posse of lesbians. L word style. Baby dykes optional”

Monica Galetti Gay

Monica Galetti giving the Lazer Eye. Her beams will turn you on! They'll heat you up! Just like an Aga.

This is the most searched for term used to find for my blog. (So proud)

People still seem to be obsessed with Monica Galetti’s apparent gayness, even though Masterchef ended a while ago. (When I say people I mean like a steady trickle of about 2-3 a week).

Although admittedly, I have also frantically googled…

“Is Monica Galetti gay??”

…while watching Masterchef.

I’m very susceptible to the stereotype of the short-haired-angry-woman-lesbian.

Besides all those faces she makes, I have totally seen dychees with those faces.

I’m sorry, but I just can’t help it. It seems to be hard-wired in my brain.

My gaydar goes all over the place for short-haired, angry women.

For example, when I look at those trendy Shoreditch girls with their “cool” (fake) glasses, vintage indie clothing and funky do’s – well, it’s confusing! (Sometimes teenage boys too)

I was discussing this with The Fourth A. the other day and we decided that we ought to make the Shoreditch girls badges saying

“NO! Not lesbians. Just hipsters.”

It would be a public service, especially in these difficult, sexually ambivalent times.

Anyway, to anybody who has found this blog while googling “Monica Galetti gay”, I can confirm from my earlier intensive research that she is from New Zealand, I believe she is Samoan (could be wrong), and…..married to a man.

Disappointing, I know. But there you go. Whaddayagonnado?

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