This was on the news last night, and caught my eye. In a nutshell, VCAT has given the owner of the Peel in Collingwood the right to refuse entry to heterosexuals and lesbians. You might wonder why it’s necessary to implement such a law. The article goes onto explain:
Mr McFeely said he went to the tribunal after his gay patrons expressed concerns over the number of heterosexuals and lesbians frequenting his pub. They were made to feel like zoo exhibits, and violence ensued occasionally, he said.
It appears that people have been holding their bucks and hens nights at the Peel, and making people feel uncomfortable. Are some people complete idiots??!! Who would hold their pre-wedding shenanigans at a well-known gay bar? Then start a fight?
Furthermore, everyone wants to know the answer to this question: when refusing entry, how will they tell who is gay and who is not? And what will the criteria be? Will they:
-Demand to see the contents of their iPod for evidence of Kylie/Barbra Streisand/Madonna/Julie Andrews?
-Inspect their gym membership for frequency of use?
-Sternly ask how you spell ‘Midsummer’
-Ask how much they spend per week on hair product?
Because none of those criteria mean anything any more.
Luckily for the owner of the Peel his pub is not in Brunswick, because he’d have a job on his hands. The number of fey, spaniel’s ear haircut blokes walking the streets is not to be believed. Often seen with their girlfriends: platoons of pirate-themed, wader-wearing gals who clearly cut their hair in the dark. What gives?
Look – maybe my gaydar’s on the blink, or maybe I just can’t tell any more. The number of blokes I’ve met who I SWORE would be gay have ALWAYS turned out to be straight….or so they say.
Let me share these tales, they’re funny.
A few years ago I met this chap at an art exhibition. We chit-chatted about cooking, he teased a friend about her crush on another chap, he bought me drinks, he charmed me and all my friends. In short, I thought he was a lovely gay man, who was tuned into my fag hag-ishness. Only when he asked for my number at the end of the night did I get a stirring of suspicion.
A mate rang me later to make puerile noises, at which I pooh-poohed her loudly.
“He said Ivy was ‘a SCREAM!!’”
“Straight men don’t use words like ‘scream’.”
I was thoroughly told off, and asked ‘do you want to always be single, you’re so picky’ etc etc etc the usual.
We later had a thoroughly platonic date at the Belgian Beer Café. Only when he told me about his many ex-girlfriends did the penny drop. I was on a date with a gay man How does that work? How do I respond? Somehow, it didn’t fly.
Another time I tried out that ‘midweek meat market’ thingo on RRR (much to the amusement of my sister and workmates). I met up with this wee fellow at a bar, and he regaled me with thrilling tales of health insurance, cooking, racing bikes, architecture and the exact thread count and brand name of the vintage cycling clothes he preferred. And how well they fitted. At one stage he leant over to breathily inform me how much he enjoyed my miniskirt, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. A gay man was flirting with me. That one didn’t fly either.
Perhaps I’m just totally narrow-minded. Yes, that’s it. I look forward to hearing about how the Peel is going to enforce its new law, yes indeedy.