Imagine the scene. An ante room in a horribly opulent Beverly Hills hotel. There are gaudy flower arrangements and vomit-print furnishings as far as the eye can see. And in the very middle of it, stands Sam Smith, convincing his management that he can go on camera and not make a fool of himself. "This time I'll be different," he says. “I can do this. I'll just say thank you to my mum and my dead childhood pets and I’ll leave the podium – I promise.” A flunky will smooth...

The older a gay I become, the fewer straight men I tend to hang around with. It's not a conscious uncoupling from my boob-loving brothers, but most of the ones I knew have either moved away, or got married, or had children or all three. We keep in touch, of course, but with a few exceptions, it's mainly through their wives. As for making friends with new straight men, other than online through Twitter, that too has challenges. I write for a gay magazine, so not too many heteros hanging...