Is there something gay about me?

Maybe I picked something up in San Francisco where a straight man, to quote an episode of Frasier, is “like a Snickers bar at a Fat Camp”; maybe the abuse of neighbouring comprehensive, the Borough, was true and the seven years at an all-boys Grammar School are responsible; or maybe I’m just one of the fortunate few – a straight guy with a queer eye. Whatever the reason, there’s a blip on the gaydar and it’s me, and another case of mistaken sexual identity.

I’m not saying that I wasn’t a little bit excited when my shoes appeared on Queer Eye, or that I’m not flattered by the subtle and nervous advances of the salesman in Zara. And I did appreciate the drinks bought for me by the bearded guy in Berkeley, but I’m just saying, and for the Disco record, that I won’t be giving up my, er, seat at the gay bar, or visiting a gay bar whatsoever: I am not gay.

This wrong assumption, I’m sure, has cost me many opportunities to prove my heterosexuality, and I write now with the intention of straightening out this kafuffle, once and for all. Sure, I may watch re-runs of Frasier, shop at a clothes store called Zara, and occasionally use the word kafuffle, but to reiterate, I’m as straight as the next guy. Wait..that guy has a one in eight chance of being gay. Er...I'm like the guy next to him.

The Salon

Some homes have a gardener, a cleaner, some might have a Mexican pool cleaner; we have a hairdresser. The only Tiffany I have ever known (outside of Eighties pop music) has been keeping our family groomed for the past three years. I, on the principle that I don’t trust hairdressers with appalling hair, am growing mine and won't fall prey to her stationery scissors. This morning however my sleep was cut short by the unsettling sound of shears and the sharp sermon of a woman scorned. Tiffany, I can tell you, has been dumped by her boyfriend of two years and her conversation this morning extended beyond the usual "been on holiday?" banter we have come to expect from stylists. When she was done my mum came into my room. "Bloody hell," she said. "We're going to need a new hairdresser." I can just imagine the conversation: "It's not you, Tiffany. It’s me…"

Simply the Breast

There is one phrase that encapsulates all the things I hate, three words, four syllables and all walls of a nutshell, in which tabloid newspapers, eighties softrock and ITV can be found. Simply the Best is that phrase, was a big hit for Tina Turner in the Eighties, is the slogan of small businesses nationwide, and the name of a new ITV game show designed to pull viewers back to the once primetime Saturday night slot. It comes hot on the heels of a Channel 4 documentary, Who Killed Saturday Night TV?, and hopes to resurrect ratings by enlisting the cheekiness of Phil Tufnell and the breasts of Kirsty Gallacher, which are - frankly - worthy of the phrase and reason enough (or alone) to tune in tomorrow at 7:30pm.

The Expensive Handshake

Three years, eighteen classes, around £15,000, and it all boils down to one handshake. "Sandeep Kumar Sharma" Principal Roger Gould called, as I handed him my slip of paper, half-wishing that I'd altered it to read, "the Amazing...", "the Incredible...", or simply "sansharma.com". Careful not to trip, I walked slowly across the stage towards a flamboyantly dressed Pro-Chancellor and bent down to shake his hand. "Congratulations," he said. "Thank you," I returned, ready to clutch my gown and take flight. But he wouldn't let go. His chalky, white hand clasped mine and - I gasped - he went on. "What will you do now?" Well, I was actually planning on sitting down and watching the rest of the show, but I could hardly say that. "Um, a masters...probably." "Ah!" he exclaimed, perhaps more excited at the prospect than I was. "Here? At Lancaster?" "Er, no...I don't think so," I replied, not meaning to sound so condescending to the man handing me my degree. But then he wasn't. He was just shaking my hand, and as he released his grip I took one look at the crowd of proud parents and investors, and around for a scroll, a book token – something in return for my hard graft. Nothing. "Good luck," he added, before I left the stage, thinking that an actual certificate might be more attractive to employers.

The Untouchables

There are few stories more inspirational than that of Monica & Gabriela Irimia and their ascent from obscurity in Transylvania, Romania to superstardom in the testing pop charts and unusually tough music industries of the UK, Germany and Japan. In 2002, now known as the Cheeky Girls, they broke into the charts of those countries with their debut single "Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum)" and today, almost two years later, they reached another highpoint, performing at a Twins and Triplets Festival at the Telford Town Park.

Although currently without a record label, the Romanian rump ravers were not without fans this afternoon as they performed a revue of their greatest hits. That's three songs: "Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum)", "Take Your Shoes off" and "Hooray, Hooray (It’s A Cheeky Holiday)". Not willing to pay the £10 admission charge or to pose as triplets to enable free entry, John, Pete and I snuck through the surprisingly slack security to enjoy an afternoon of 'live' music.

Although not persuaded to take off my shoes I was nevertheless impressed with their showmanship, if a little disappointed that – despite the invite – I was unable to touch their bums. Better luck next time, eh?

Three Days, Two boys, No Girls

My high school buddy, Pete and I have been hitting up the Midlands like the Hilton sisters do Manhattan. He, having returned from a year in Portugal, and I, from the similarly exotic Lancaster University (and once upon a time, California), have alternated days in each others company in an implicit programme of support.

On Saturday we met in the park where a very young boy, clearly having just grasped English, observed with some confusion that we were "two boys, no girls". Unperturbed by the juvenile naysayer we staged a gatecrash of the school governors' ball in an attempt to remedy the noted circumstance. But without suitable attire and not a quart of booze we instead and rather feebly snuck behind some trees and listened to the band.

Monday we ventured further and to the England's second city and home to its most peculiar accent, Birmingham. It is also a hotbed, we have decided, of hot totty. (And that readers, I assure you, is my first and last use of the word.) We fished sushi from a conveyer belt and established a music club whose members, currently Pete and I, buy and burn CDs for each other. First to the flames were The Killers and The Walkmen with their stellar albums, Hot Fuss and Bows + Arrows.

Wednesday, and we extended our party to three boys (still no girls) with the induction of (ooh ah) John McGrath, a current Lancaster student and recent alumnus of the University of North Carolina. With him we saw Shrek 2 and, like two ogres and a donkey, looked out at a summer together in this swamp of a town, dreaming of a land Far-Far Away where we might live Happily Ever-After.

An English July

"We ought to get you out of those wet clothes," the cliché said, before peeling off my jeans, jacket and shirt – soaked not in the sunshine of summer but the torrential downpour of an English July. And glad I am too, to be in my pyjamas and out of the flooded Weston Park stately home where, peering at my watch, Jools Holland and his Rhythm & Blues Orchestra are probably still performing.

Unperturbed by the sort of apocalyptic weather akin to the Old Testament (or the more recent smash, The Day After Tomorrow), Jools Holland waited out the driving rain, lightning and an actual tornado, before playing to a Staffordshire crowd perhaps more prepared for a plague of locusts than a lively revue of Rhythm & Blues. I wondered if the audience of middle-class white folk would otherwise listen to R&B had the tickets not been so overpriced and Holland's ensemble billed as a band rather than an "orchestra". I wanted somehow to transplant them to Beale Street, Memphis and see how they enjoyed themselves at a bar with W.C. Handy.

Tonight though, the largely inanimate crowd (save for the occasional twitch) were having a grand time, constructing elaborate dining tables complete with candelabra and quiche and all to some of the finest background music money could buy. It was an evening of triumph over adversity and a shining example of the British innate ability to make the most of a bad situation. In a country where tornadoes can occur in July it's a very good, if essential trait to have.