Here's a picture of me taken last week, displaying my big gay helmet. Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Whenever you mention the names "Morrissey" or "Valentino", for every nice and decent person that comes a long, there are two pitiable cranks. The ones who believe that their icons have or would have had eyes for them alone. If they don't like white people, they will swear blind that Mozza and Rudy were black.
The latest clown to hit the circus tent is Dominic Caruso, an ageing roué who went to school with Mrs Malaprop. He's well into his seventies, but in a Dorian Gray meets Fedora exercise he posts pictures of himself only as he looked forty years ago. Like myself he had an infamous father--you'll have to look that one up as I'm not going to mention this here.
This man is OBSESSED with Valentino, and when I say obsessed I'm assuming wrist-action obsessed. Tonight, he messages me to inform me that I'm a good writer and intelligent--I guess this must be true, otherwise sales wouldn't be well into seven figures, and I'd be flogging my wares from a shed in Oshkosh--and adds that I would be something special if I weren't ashamed of being Gay.
He spells it with a capital letter, by the way!
Mr Caruso--or may I call you Enrico?--what ARE you trying to say? I am NOT ashamed of anything, my dear (a favourite endearment of yours). I am what I am. But if you're trying to get into my knickers, Dom-Dom, then you're going to have to try harder than that!