Almost impressive . . . almost.

I'm just going to put this out there for anyone that may empathise; being single on facebook is scary.  Unfortunately, I didn't screen-print it at the time, but the advertisements facebook deemed most suitable for me were the following;

"25 and still single?" - 'Still'?  Duuuude, ouch!

"Ever thought about adopting?" - Erm, no . . . and I am quite happy to go on not thinking about adopting.

"Protect yourself" (with a picture of a rifle) - Facebook even knows that I have moved into the ghetto!  After some investigating though, it turned out to be an online game . . . shame really.

But alas, I am no longer plagued thusly, following mine and Adam's man-love matrimony.

Now, I realise I promised an amusing story about a brilliant office prank, but this shall have to wait, for I have a pressing issue that needs addressing.

Several years ago, Grace and I were on a day-trip to Nottingham (as Derby is just awful . . . #TheSmithOpinion: "why did you come 'ere?!") when she was trying to not-so-literally twist my arm and make me buy a felt jacket . . . mainly because she had a crush on Richard Fleishman who did some nonce-esque celebrity singing competition in a felt jacket.

 My response?

True story.

A few weeks after this event, my dear friend Richard accompanied us to Nottingham (again, since we were too embarrassed to show him around Derby) and visited the same shop with the same felt jacket.  Not unsurprisingly, no one had snapped it up in my absence.  Grace once again said it would suit me, to which she got my flippant riposte, and then Richard stated something along the lines of . . .

"it wouldn't look gay, it would make you look like Dr. Who."

Orly?

Needless to say, I bought it.

Me and said felt jacket had many a treasured memory in our years together, and not once did I ever suspect that I looked even remotely gay attired as such . . . . until last Saturday evening.

Having visited my sister's house, where my jacket was located, I decided to take it back to my dwelling in Derby (which recently has seen a homeless chap move onto the street . . . not into a house obviously, or else he wouldn't be homeless.  No, he lives down near the Kensington Arms) but couldn't fit it into my bag, so instead just wore it.  I was stood outside Chesterfield train station, with twenty minutes to waste until my train arrived.  Approached was I by an incredibly small southern male called Tyler who asked me for a lighter.  Unfortunately, he appeared to want to socialise with me, whilst I was more than happy being nostalgic over my bleak teenage years listening to Finch (anyone remember the band Finch?  Brilliant!) when, about forty seconds into our conversation, he slipped it in (err, in fact, it's best to swap that to 'dropped' it in . . . or just 'mentioned'; 'mentioned works) that he had 'recently split up with his boyfriend and was looking for a relationship'.

This left me with something of a bone to pick with Grace when I saw her at the weekend.

Grace: "What else were you wearing at the time?"
Me: "Well I was wearing a woolly jumper underneath the felt blazer, these shoes (gestured at the shoes) and some black skinny jeans. . . . . . . . . in fact yep, yep I must have looked gay."

Last week seemed to contain many a deep conversation; through facebook messages with Linda, a very one-sided drunken conversation with Adam (since I wasn't allowed to drink due to medical tests) and again with Grace.  The most stand-out of all of them, with a quote which sort of made me die inside, came from the latter.

"Michael . . . . . . . . . is the reason that you are always so down and miserable because you are denying that you are gay?"

                                                                                                     Grace Cunningham, March 2012

Now, bare in mind that I was in a relationship with Grace for six years - five of which we lived together - you would think that if there is one person on this planet who whole-heartedly would think I'm straight, t'would be her. 

Nope.

She has previously dished me one of my Top 10 all-time insults, which goes;

"You are so far in the closet that you are technically in Narnia"

. . . in fact, thinking of it, Poppy was also fairly convinced I was gay; her 'affectionate' nickname for me was 'Harrygay McBentfag', and I still have the barbs of her brutal form of fraping as evidence to this day.

'Mike' as well . . . I hate the name 'Mike'; t'makes me picture a grubby mechanic.

I couldn't quite say whether Melissa is able to complete the hat-trick in having all my exes convinced I was gay; we never made it that far as we only lasted thirty-seven days.

But then she didn't stay around too long to realise just the full extent of my perceived 'campness' - it takes me longer than thirty-seven days to lace up my Converse All-Stars.

My friends and family are not much better at attacking my alleged sexual preference; I seem to have been lumbered with the unfortunate moniker of 'Captain Queero'.  Both my mother and sister have asked me on different occasions whether I'm gay or not, and I accidently 'gayed' my father at Hallowe'en.  He popped over for a flying visit, and I quizzed him whether or not he was heading back into Chesterfield centre.  He responded in the affirmative, so I asked him if I could get a lift as I needed to go in, to which he convivially asked what it was I needed from town.

"I need some more make-up . . . "

My father's reaction.

". . . for my Hallowe'en costume."

At times it all gets a bit much, so I turn to my facebook friends for some comforting reassurance . . . and find none whatsoever.

. . . . yeahhhhhh so it transpires that Melissa also thinks I am gay.  Hat-trick of ex-girlfriends who think I'm gay.  When you think about it, it is almost impressive . . . almost.