Here’s The TRUTH About The London Gay Scene


**DISCLAIMER: This blog post contains a number of uncensored truths.

TRUTH: It’s that thing on the gay scene that most people choose to avoid. Like bumping into an ex, going to work, or a political debate with Mark-Ashley Dupé. But why do we cling to denial like it’s the last bump of the weekend? Which, while we’re on the topic – if bitches had as much mephedrone as they did denial, half the city would be dead. You know what I’m saying? Beyond be looking like a scene from 28 Days Later.

Yes, denial and drugs go hand-in-hand, like cookies and cream. Or Fat Tony and fillers. They are hands down London’s biggest problem – well apart from the clientèle at Union. For those of you that have never been there… I’m jealous. Oh, I’m sorry – is this a bit too real for y’all? Well, they do say that the truth hurts. And whoever said that has clearly never heard Marco Gee DJ. I mean, the truth hurts, but it isn’t half as painful as that. (Sidebar: I wouldn’t read too much into this babe, it is only “journalism from a hair saloon” after all). 


BUT, I digress… SO, why do gay men have such issues facing up to the truth? Is it because we’re all burdened with whatever deep-rooted issues we grew up with? Or it simply because it’s more horrifying to look at than Sandra first thing in the morning? No, but seriously though, we can never admit when enough is enough – for some us that’s drugs. For Ashley Ryder, it’s cock. Now, hey, those are his words not mine. He once said in an interview with QX that he needs to be “impaled”. I’ll do it! Who’s got a kitchen knife? Nah I’m just playing, I give Ashley Ryder a lot of stick, but that’s just because any less wouldn’t touch the sides. Thankfully he can take a joke as well as he takes girth.

Back to my point though, we’re more than happy to endure the pain of anal penetration but when it comes to hearing the truth, we turn and mince the other way. Like Gary Glitter when a boy turns 10. Bet trashbags would go for counselling though, if they got an orgasm at the end of it though. Could you imagine, blabbing about your issues to a stranger and then getting molested afterwards? Oh wait… I think there’s an app for that; it’s called Grindr.

We don’t like the truth because it’s often too hurtful. To look in the mirror and say:

“You take too many drugs. You’re too promiscuous. You’re not happy with your life choices.”


Wow. That’s the last thing people wanna hear… I mean, after “we’ve accidentally emailed your HIV status out to London”. Seriously, who wants to be told that their life is in a worse state than Lady Lloyd’s hair extensions? It’s true, the only time we like to hear anything negative is getting our blood results. But, in many cases, they are all true. When did it become socially acceptable to take drugs every weekend? And fuck the fucking weekend, I know bitches that bump on a Tuesday. What, we can’t even have a catch-up and have a few glasses of wine without calling a dealer? Like, we more dependant on that shit than Katherine Ellis and her annual appearance at Clapham Street Party.

And then all of a sudden we want a trophy for not shovelling drugs up our nostrils. “I haven’t got on it in two weeks!” we’ll announce, prouder than Russell Tovey that he exudes a few ‘masc’ qualities. Like, what bitch? You want a medal because you done an entire fortnight without plant food? Jacqui Potato goes longer than that without soap. And truth be told, you only went that long without it because you ran away to your mum’s, in whatever basic suburb, for the weekend. Y’all got no will power! If only Philipe could ban people from buying baggies as easily as he bans them from Fire. Look, I’m not being hypocritical, I’m guilty of it too; I’ll hold my hands up to that quicker than I crush a gram. Why do you think I’m moving continents? ‘Cause I can’t afford to buy a new septum.

As for the sex? You know how hard it is to find a man in this city that ain’t a raggedy hoe with no morals? It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack; or a syringe in Jodie Harsh’s hair (for you trashy skets that struggle with the former metaphor). I mean, it’s harder to find than a thread of clothing on Dr. Christian’s Grindr profile. So perhaps that’s why it’s easier to sleep around; because otherwise, we’d end up with sexual organs dustier than Tom Fuller’s CV. Then again, perhaps the men only seem this way in the circles we mix. After all, we do have classy establishments like Sauna Bar to meet eligible men.


But we weren’t always as fucked up as this, surely? So what changed? Honestly, it’s a mystery. Like Jonathan Bestley’s gender. Nobody’s been this completely clueless since Sylvia Rebel thought being friends with Vauxhall DJs made her a celebrity. So why? Do we hate our own lives so much that we need drugs and sex as an escapism? Is our self-esteem that low? If only all our egos were as big as Adam Turner’s.

Yes, it’s no secret that London is in the midst of a drug epidemic; that’s more obvious than James Egan in a crowd of Spanish men. But how do we solve it? There’s a pitch for the BBC – How Do You Solve A (Meph) Problem Like Maria? I think it would be a hit. It would make Shameless look like Songs Of Praise.

And yes, we are talking about it, and conversation is good! Unless you get stuck chatting to Glendora in Fire at 5am on a Monday morning. But maybe the problem isn’t drugs, or chill outs, or sex parties, or saunas, or Vauxhall, or shit club nights than require 14 grams to be even slightly enjoyable. Maybe the problem is denial. Denial, the only thing that’s been around on the gay scene longer than Minty. We’re all to blame for our own actions and choices, and perhaps that’s the real truth gay men can’t face.

Author: AnthonyGilet

Share This Post On