It is shortly after someone on Grindr has just offered me no strings attached (which I assume means sex with Pinocchio) that I have decided to begin writing this article. It was dwelling on the ‘real boy’ scenario that I realised that I cannot recall the last time I saw one. An actual boy that is, or little girl. Where on earth are the children in Manchester? The entire population of Manchester seems to be male students, female students and hairdressers.
It may not be known, but in my past I was used to being surrounded by children through my work as a magician in Harrods and Hamleys. Safe to say I am familiar with these sticky midgets. I am not however good with children. I can recall one gig in a private house where I was asked if I wouldn’t mind keeping the children entertained whilst the mother went off to the shops to buy more tiny pork cylinders, chocolate currency and all manner of things those fast moving tiny folk enjoy to scoff. She was in shock upon her arrival home that I had the children watching Schindler’s List. I simply ran out of things to entertain them with.
I myself was a lonely child. I had four friends, two of whom were imaginary. The first left me as he believed I turned boring and the other left me after I stopped going to church. I recall that if I wanted to play on the see-saw I would have to run from one end to the other. My two imaginary friends would be too busy playing with each other.
I am unsure whether or not to have children when I am older or simply just get a dog. It all depends on whether I want to ruin my carpet or ruin my life. Children, I am told, are a wonderful learning process. Parents tell me it’s WONDERFUL discovering how to survive on 2 hours sleep. If I wanted to learn how to do that I would have become a political prisoner. I couldn’t be trusted with a baby either, I would almost certainly leave it on the roof of my car. I am sure most women would much rather their birthing routine would be more like the kangaroo’s, crawling out into a pouch after 2 months and growing there… or in their case crawling into a clutch purse. I don’t think I could be there for the birth of my child either, I don’t see why two people’s evenings should be ruined.
I would spoil any child of mine, that is most certain. I would give them whatever toys they desired, unlike when I was growing up… mother insisted my bath toys should be the radio and the toaster. My father was a bit better I suppose. I could remember when I was just a wee toddler and he would throw me up in the air and I would laugh, scream and giggle and he would go answer the door. So I learnt to make my own fun. I invented the elevator game, which consisted of standing in my wardrobe for 5 minutes. I probably had a closer relationship with my grandfather I’d say. I would play with him almost every week. He was long dead admittedly but mum put his ashes in my etch-a-sketch.
But I don’t plan on having children soon. Thankfully, the ways gays do it, we won’t accidentally get pregnant. It doesn’t however mean I am unsafe. Safe sex is good sex! However my family are a bit traditional. When my mother found one of my condoms I had to tell her it was a swimming cap for a newt. I myself am a big fan of developing a pill for men. Why should women have to take the pill? It makes more sense to take the bullets out of the gun than to wear a bullet proof vest. But until then… wear a condom. A pack of condoms is £4, a pack of nappies is £10.