On the met­ro­sexual:

The typ­ical met­ro­sexual is a young man with money to spend, liv­ing in or within easy reach of a met­ro­polis — because that’s where all the best shops, clubs, gyms and hairdress­ers are. He might be offi­cially gay, straight or bisexual, but this is utterly imma­ter­ial because he has clearly taken him­self as his own love object and pleas­ure as his sexual preference.”

On David Beckham:

That oddly flat-but-friendly gaze that peers out from bill­boards and behind Police sunglasses looks to mil­lions like the nearest thing to god­li­ness in a god­less world. People fall in love not with him – who knows what Beckham is ‘really’ like, or cares – but with his mul­ti­me­dia need­i­ness, his trans­mit­ted “viral” desire, which seems to spread and rep­lic­ate itself every­where, endors­ing mul­tiple products. Becks’ desire, via the giant shared toi­let handle of advert­ising, infects us, inhab­its us and becomes our own.”


Bond is now the Bond Girl of the open­ing cred­its. It’s his sil­hou­ette we see — and nary a dan­cing naked babe in sight. Perhaps to com­pensate for this, in the actual film he gets his tits out a lot. He emerges from the sea glisten­ing, show­ing off his pumped boobs, like Ursula Andress in ‘Dr No’ — save his nipples are more prom­in­ent. Bond has finally become his own Bond Girl.”

On President Bush’s ‘Mission Accomplished’:

When Air National Guard absentee and former male cheer­leader George W. Bush fam­ously dressed up in Cruise’s “Top Gun” cos­tume and used the USS Abraham Lincoln as a giant, nuclear-powered strap-on, that was as brazen an exhib­i­tion of cross-dressing as there’s ever been.”

On the hummersexual:

The so-called ‘menais­sance’ in the US against met­ro­sexu­al­ity is men­dacious. This isn’t ret­ro­sexual at all, but hum­mer­sexual: a noisy, over­blown, and frankly rather camp form of faux mas­culin­ity that likes to draw atten­tion to itself and its ‘old-fashioned’ man­li­ness, but tends — like driv­ing an out­sized mil­it­ary vehicle in the sub­urbs or wear­ing leather chaps in bars — to be a tad counterproductive.”

On President Obama

A well-dressed mixed-race, poly­glot male who makes the Free World wait on his gym visit every morn­ing. A man whose looks are reg­u­larly praised – par­tic­u­larly by male journ­al­ists. A man who won the Democratic nom­in­a­tion in part because he was much pret­tier than his more exper­i­enced female oppon­ent. His wife Michelle is very attract­ive too, of course – but in some ways Obama is the first US President to be his own First Lady.”

On Sporno:

In a spor­no­graphic age it’s no longer enough for the male body to be presen­ted to us by con­sumer­ism as merely attract­ive, or desir­ing to be desired, as it was in the early days of nakedly nar­ciss­istic male met­ro­sexu­al­ity. This mas­cu­line coquettish-ness, pleas­ing as it is, no longer offers an intense enough image. Or pro­vokes enough lust. It’s just not very shock­ing or arous­ing any more. In fact, it’s just too… nor­mal. To get our atten­tion these days the sport­ing male body has to prom­ise us noth­ing less than an immacu­lately groomed, waxed and pumped gang-bang in the showers.”

On Gordon Brown’s Skin

Even without the fin­an­cial melt­down Brown was never going to win those brightly-lit TV debates on our Widescreen HDTVs. Not because of any­thing he said of course, but because he looked like death on toast. Really dry toast.

On Dave and Nick’s Arrival at No.10

Yes, it was cute the way that they both tried to place their hand on each other’s back, to broad­cast to the world they were both ‘ver­sat­ile’ – or rather, both tops –but as the big, heavy door to No.10 began to close behind them, it was Cameron’s hand ever-so gal­lantly, but ever-so firmly in the small of Clegg’s back, push­ing him for­wards into their ‘new polit­ics’. And prob­ably, after the door slammed shut, over.”

On The New Metro-Politics

Which brings us onto an appar­ently para­dox­ical aspect of the ‘pro­gress­ive­ness’ of the metro-politicians admir­ing their reflec­tion in the polls. Whilst they may be more appeal­ing to many women voters than more tra­di­tional, plainer politi­cians, and are often keen to present them­selves as feminist-friendly, they tend to regard them­selves as so sens­it­ive and lovely that they don’t actu­ally need women in their cab­in­ets. Unless they’re a bit camp like Theresa May. Or a bit scary like Hillary Clinton.”

On Keanu Reeves in ‘The Day The Earth Stood Still’

Unfortunately, in an attempt to make the movie eco-friendly and now-ish, there’s more than a little Al Gore in Keanu’s Klaatu, which in movies not actu­ally made with PowerPoint is not a good thing, and his char­ac­ter falls between two melt­ing ice­bergs.… But if the Earth/America is dying as a res­ult of our vora­cious con­sumer­ism, then Mr Reeves must bear quite a bit of respons­ib­il­ity for that him­self.  You don’t get to look four­teen years younger than your birth cer­ti­fic­ate without using a lot of product.”


Jesus’ organ — because it was never used and was the product of a pen­isless birth — was as holy as all oth­ers were damned. His fore­skin or pre­puce became a holy relic, so holy that there were thou­sands of them. Hence the taste test, a medi­eval ver­sion of the Pepsi Challenge: chew­ing on the shriv­elled leather to determ­ine whether it was wholly or par­tially human. Saint Agnes ima­gined she was swal­low­ing the Holy Prepuce at Communion (with no gag reflex).”


An all-guy mar­riage is about as All-American as you can get. God may have cre­ated Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, but in the ima­gin­a­tion of the American Wilderness, forever on the run from domest­icity, he cre­ated us Adam and Steve, Huck and Tom, Butch and Sundance, Starsky and Hutch.”


Is there a sup­port group for people who didn’t like ‘Brokeback Mountain’? We must, if the rave reviews and the news­pa­per reports are to be believed, be a very tiny — not to men­tion vul­ner­able — minor­ity. Am I dead inside because I didn’t exper­i­ence the tor­rent of emo­tions I’ve been read­ing about? Am I as emo­tion­ally crippled as Ennis because I didn’t blub and hug after sit­ting through this ‘vis­ceral’ movie, but instead wanted to go and ‘help with the roundup’?”

On The English Obsession with Cristiano Ronaldo

Cristiano Ronaldo, one of the best foot­ballers ever to play in this coun­try, and one of the best look­ing, brought out the worst in the English. He prickled you see, our ugly, mean-minded, spite­ful, spit­ting jeal­ousy. We were jeal­ous of his tal­ent, his looks, his body, his youth, his money and most of all of his total lack of interest in what the English media and ter­race cul­ture thought of him and his dress sense and the way they kept shout­ing “winker!”, “poof!”, “twink­le­toes!!” to try and get his attention.”

On Colin Farrell:

Farrell’s Alexander isn’t haunted, or driven, para­noid, or threat­en­ing, ter­ri­fy­ing or cha­ris­matic: his eyes are just too close together. When wear­ing his giant war hel­met in the battle scenes his beady little eyes peer out blink­ing like Marvin the Martian. Likewise he is utterly lost in Stone’s movie. Farrell’s face is as blank and thought­less as the world that has made him a “star”. It’s dif­fi­cult to believe that any­one would fol­low him to the 7-Eleven let alone the edge of the world.”

On Marlon Brando:

His tight-T-shirted, sweaty mus­cu­lar­ity was openly erotic; his bru­tish, built but sen­sual Stanley Kowalski was the street­car named Desire (‘Stell-la!’). Clift and Dean were faces, but Marlon was a face on a pout­ing body.”

On Jonathan Rhys Meyers in ‘The Tudors’

Yes, there are lots of comely, busty ladies in TudorWorld and their bod­ices keep rip­ping, and Jonathan keeps shtup­ping them. But the fact that they‘re usu­ally rather bet­ter act­ors than him just under­lines the fact that HD Henry is the real sex-object in his sex scenes. His tits and ass are always the first out and the last in, and the widescreen cam­era makes sure his body is always, very vul­garly, on dis­play. In fact, Rhys Meyers‘ looks more rent boy than roy­alty. Maybe that‘s why his King of England speaks – on the rare occa­sions when he doesn‘t have his mouth full of wench – like a rent boy order­ing in a posh restaurant.”


Looking at the pic­tures, snapped at night with flash pho­to­graphy (like many of the pic­tures of Diana), it’s dif­fi­cult not to won­der at how such an expens­ive, glam­or­ous, chauffeur-driven, bodyguard-accompanied lim­ousine could end up such a shape­less mess — or how such a mess could have been a car at all, let alone such a fam­ous one. To won­der how a limo whisk­ing someone from the Paris Ritz could have turned so sud­denly into a hearse. To won­der just how mangled the expens­ive, glam­or­ous Diana was. Celebrities tend to lead car-crash lives, and if they also hap­pen to have car-crash deaths then who can blame us if we want to slow down and take a good look?”

On Eminem:

And then in 2001 the man who rapped ‘I don’t want no damn Grammy’, appeared on the damn Grammys, in that very dis­turb­ing duet with the evil fairy god­mother of show­biz pop bland­ness, Elton John. Millions of view­ers were treated to the sight of Slim Shady con­scien­tiously suck­ing the Grammys’ cock while a pink-polka-dotted bewigged Elton sucked his.”

On mas­ochism:

Apparently, a good sad­ist is hard to find. But, I can reveal, a good mas­ochist is even harder to find. Whenever I hear the words: “Use me! Abuse me! Do any­thing you want to me!’ My heart and man­hood always sink. Not because I have any prob­lem with the idea of using someone. Rather, it’s that I know that not far behind this invit­a­tion to selfish­ness are always the words, ‘Not that! This! Not there! Here!.’

On Action Man & G.I. Joe :

It was my par­ents who had planted the sus­pi­cion of Action Man’s mas­culin­ity in my head and turned me into a closeted Action Manophile: ‘No, Santa won’t be bring­ing you one of those dolls, Mark.’ ‘He’s not a doll!! He’s a sol­dier!’ Of course, they were entirely cor­rect in their con­cerns. Despite his butch trade­marked name and rugged cam­ou­flaged gear, he was clearly Passive Man, as was betrayed by the advert­ising copy that shrieked at you to: “Move him into action pos­i­tions!” Action Man: on land, on sea, and legs in the air.”

On movie musclemen:

We expect as a mat­ter of course that our male leads these days will have per­fect pec­tor­als, bounteous biceps and cor­rug­ated steel stom­achs that speak of thou­sands of hours of sweat, tears and neur­otic diet­ing. ‘Brad Pitt’ is now Esperanto for ‘six pack’. What, after all, is the point of being a film star if you can’t hire the most sad­istic per­sonal fit­ness instructor in town and feast on egg white omelettes and rice cakes?”

On inter­net cruising:

Gays have become the unpaid sec­ret­ar­ies of desire, fil­ing and cata­loguing human weak­ness. Promiscuity is now a form of bur­eau­cracy. Tedious, eye-straining, number-crunching slave work.”

On Captain Kirk:

James Tiberius Kirk, the fam­ously gung-ho Starfleet Commander, went com­mando, swinging boldly where no man had swung before. This was the cru­cial dif­fer­ence between the sweaty, highly Freudian ori­ginal ‘Star Trek’ series and the sex­less, sweat­less P.C. ‘The Next Generation’. Can you ima­gine Jean-Luc Picard not wear­ing spot­less knick­ers with a built-in con­tain­ment field, changed twice a day and incin­er­ated after use?”

On oral sex:

Every man would suck his own penis if he could, but that’s why God gave every man except Jeff Stryker a penis shorter than his back­bone — to make sure they expen­ded an awful lot of energy doing other things to get blow jobs. Things that might seem to some rather daft and point­less oth­er­wise, but without which the world would be a duller place — things such as rock ‘n’ roll, polit­ics, cun­ni­lin­gus, reli­gion, and odd-jobs around the home.”

On the British:

Whatever class you are born into, your des­tiny, your hap­pi­ness, your sal­va­tion, is not your prop­erty and cer­tainly not your right. If you try to escape your British birth­right by becom­ing some­thing you’re not, then you will be Found Out. And every­one will point and laugh and call you a wanker.”

On Whitney Houston:

The super­sonic nuc­lear blast-wave of Ms Houston’s ver­sion of ‘I Will Always Love You’ — “IAEYAEYAEYAEYAE!” — just flat­tens everything before it. Whitney’s voice didn’t need any soul; it was pure Will. Whitney is speak­ing a fright­en­ing truth here about romantic love: it’s a form of egot­ism, per­haps the purest. “I will always love you” is a stalk­ing, psychotic declar­a­tion of a love for one’s own abil­ity to love, regard­less of all obstacles. Duch as, say, the beloved’s total indif­fer­ence.”


Every night was wet jock­strap night (without the jock­strap) at the Roman baths, and espe­cially well-endowed bathers were likely to be greeted with a round of applause. During the reign of notori­ous size-queen Emperor Elagabalus, those who hung low at the baths were pro­moted to high office.”

On Australia:

Raised on ‘Skippy’, Rolf Harris and swim­wear cata­logues I too yearned for a coun­try where the sun shone all day every day, where every­one was your mate, kangaroos could talk and ‘Speedos’ was Australian for ‘Y-fronts’. And then I vis­ited Australia. And it quickly dawned on me that Australia, like Australian skin, is much bet­ter in long-shot. Australia is much more Australian from a dis­tance. Close up, it’s just not really worth 24 hours of recir­cu­lated flu vir­uses, deep-vein throm­bosis and Love Actually. It’s been left out in the sun too long.”