'It's great to be gay!" announced Brendan Courtney at the launch of GI magazine last month. And he's right: there are a lot of advantages to being gay. You can wear colourful, figure-hugging designer clothes; you're on first-name terms with the girls at BT's cosmetic counter; you can even feel a lady's bosom and not get slapped in the face. And if you're Irish as well as gay, then the whole world loves you. Too bad I'm straight - I could be having the time of my life right now.
There's certainly never been a better time to be a gay Irishman. Dublin now has more homosexual men per capita than San Francisco and they're coming out of the closet faster than you can say, "shut that door". Despite the dire predictions of economic downturn, the Pink Pound is still the strongest currency around. Young, gay professionals have the highest disposable income, and they generally don't have families to support - gay couples being the ultimate DINKIES (double-income, no kids). VIP's publisher, John Ryan, has created GI magazine to cater to this burgeoning demographic. It's a mag whose time has, indeed, come out.
Our list of famous gay Irishmen is growing every day. In the last century, Oscar Wilde was our most celebrated literary queen, while Senator David Norris was probably our greatest living luvvie. They could soon be overshadowed by a new generation of media sweethearts, who are setting hearts a-flutter both at home and in the UK. There's Graham Norton, Channel 4's camp alternative to Pat Kenny. There's Brendan Courtney, presenter of Wanderlust, the gay travel-dating show on N2. Brendan graces the cover of issue one of GI, sharing a bicycle saddle with Brian Dowling, the winner of this year's Big Brother. Like Anna Nolan, last year's runner-up, Brian is gay, Irish and immensely popular with the viewers. Padraic Doorey didn't win on RT╔'s Treasure Island, but he was easily one of the most likeable of the castaways. Gay Irish guys have a mix of charm, wit and vulnerability that the public can't resist - everybody wants to mother them. (Notable exception: Shirley Temple Bar, who presents the dreadful Telly Bingo - we just want to smother him with his own padded bra.) And then there's author Jamie O'Neill, whose novel, At Swim, Two Boys, tells the story of a gay affair between two young Irish fellas around the time of the 1916 Easter Rising. Now there's a Wilde premise indeed.
Yes, dahling, it's never been a better time to be gay, but where does that leave us heterosexuals, affectionately known to the gay community as "breeders"? I hate to say it, guys, but we're sooo last season. There's probably never been a worse time to be middle-aged, Irish and uptightly hetero. Straight Irishmen, no longer certain of their place in modern society, and less secure in their career, marriage and peer group, are undergoing a crisis of self-confidence, not the right frame of mind for having carefree fun down at the George every night. While gay Irishmen are finally coming out into their own, and enjoying what appears to be an endless love parade, us breeders aren't exactly feeling absolutely fabulous, sweetie. To be honest, we're feeling a little left out of the party. The bouncer has taken one look at our Gap gear and refused us entry.
Irish women, busy climbing the career and property ladder, have little time to stop for a relationship, so they increasingly prefer the company of gay men. You see, boyfriends are too much trouble to maintain: we require gallons of beer to keep us running, we're sluggish at the best of times and we demand constant care, attention and reassurance. Having a gay friend to go out with is much less trouble - he's always up for a night out on the town, he'll compliment you on your fabulous outfit, he'll dance with you, listen attentively while you moan about being too busy to find a boyfriend and he won't expect a shag at the end of the night. You don't even have to call him up every day - he'll always be there for you. No wonder many women I know seem to have a gay man permanently attached to their arm.
Meanwhile, us ageing, balding breeders are cast adrift, with only John Waters to speak out on our behalf (God help us). Gay men seem to have a growing sense of community and belonging, while we heteros appear to possess an ever-shrinking support base.
There's no Bewildered Blokes Anonymous, no Society for Middle-Aged Men who've Missed the Boat, no Straight Outreach. Sure, we can meet in the local and talk football (yes, I know gay men can do that too), but there's still a big emotional gap right across our goal-line. We're trapped in our own straight little closets, hunched up and fearful, afraid to express ourselves in case people think we're nancy boys. OK, I know it's not always a picnic being gay, but when I see the likes of Brendan, Brian, Graham and Padraic having the time of their lives, I can't help feeling slightly envious.
But, since I'm not planning to change my sexual orientation in the near future, I'll just have to stumble on down the straight and lonely path. There are many obstacles to overcome, such as unimaginative dress sense, inability to dance, and a complete lack of interest in the music of Andrew Lloyd Webber. And there's another obstacle I sometimes have to skirt around - women whose "gaydars" seem to have gone a bit wonky. In the past year, a small number of women - complete strangers - have introduced themselves with, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you gay?" (Must be the way I hold my handbag.) As a chat-up line, it probably ranks alongside, "Hi, my name is Loreena Bobbit, like to come back to my place and see my carving knife collection?" As a greeting, it's rude - imagine walking up to a woman and asking her if she's a lesbian. You'd be cut down like a chauvinist pig on a spit. My usual response is to splutter incoherently, blush, and then stammer out some awkward - and completely ineffectual - denial. Needless to say, this only reinforces my assailant's conviction that I'm a full-blown "Friend of Dorothy".
But I'm not going to get a complex about it (although I might just get rid of the handbag). I tell myself that these women are just fashion victims in search of a trendy gay accessory. Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke in 91/2 Weeks went out with the 1980s - this season's must-have relationship is Madonna and Rupert Everett in The Next Best Thing. Desperately seeking a gay-mate to take them out on the town and compliment them on their hairstyle, modern girls have got their gaydars on full power and bleeping loudly at the faintest effeminate signal. There's an ad for a certain drink, in which a young man pretends to be gay, and finds himself surrounded by beautiful women. Hmmmm . . .
Eddie Holt returns next week