Category Archives: Opinion

Now we are seven

I have always played the long game. Waiting? I’m an expert. Biding your time? First class. Despite outward appearances to people who know me well of being tempestuous and quick to (over)react, I’m actually much more patient than they realise.

I started writing anonymously almost exactly seven years ago, on 30 June 2010, for a variety of reasons, some of them ridiculous and others important.

Me, around the time I started The Guyliner blog. It was my profile pic on Guardian Soulmates for a while.

The main, initial reason was that I was writing about going on dates and didn’t want to be identified. Simple. I was both fearful of recriminations and worried it would mean I could no longer be honest when writing up further dates – “compromise my artistic integrity”, as Madonna would say. Perhaps I would even have to stop altogether.

My anonymity, which I maintained until six months ago, allowed me to retain some power, some control. I had – still have – absolutely no desire to be famous. I turned down chances to appear on TV or radio countless times, and even used a fake name when I had to meet or speak to people about potential stories I’m writing who only knew me as The Guyliner. That’s how obsessed by it I was. My anonymity was always crucial to me because it allowed my writing to be the main focus – or so I told myself at the time. So many media types struggle with this – it stops being about what they’re saying and evolves into who they are. Plus, I wrote under my own name elsewhere and for a series of clients – what would they think about what I did in my spare time? Would it put my work in danger?

What I assumed my anonymity would allow me to do is swerve the usual judgement and/or criticism of my looks, and also restrict my vanity to my writing. I told myself it would be less superficial. That’s not to say I’m not as basic as the next motherfucker with a full Instagram top row of selfies with eight filters over them  – I like to get a like and a share, of course I do – but I would know for sure people would only be interested in me for what I said. I’m not saying I thought everyone would fall in love with me, far from it, but I guess I wanted to avoid the kind of attention I’d always been uncomfortable with. Fame leaves me cold; I’ve only ever been interested in success. Being a writer in the confessional digital age and a relatively private person is pretty tricky. I have only ever told the world what I wanted it to know.

As time went on, my anonymity became less and less fascinating to readers and I was all the happier for it, but as my profile started to grow a little more – a turn of events which still genuinely shocks me – my lack of enthusiasm for showing my face became a barrier. People became annoyed I was reluctant to tell them my name or what I looked like. I had to turn down promising career opportunities because it would compromise my anonymity. And then, of course, there were the people who found out.

Despite everything I say above about my anonymity being precious to me, I was kinda sloppy with it. Almost all my details were out there: where I live; where I socialise; my job; my history; my hometown. I played with it sometimes, alluding to how much I hated my name or describing some of my features. Few knew what I looked like, but I’d written about my greying hair, my blue eyes, my height, my weight, what I wear. I was hiding in plain sight for years, like all the best monsters always are.

My anonymity freed me and my work like nothing before it. It made me braver and stronger and proud – but it was also a cage. I always told myself I owned the key to my own prison, but things seemed to change. Humans are curious creatures – it’s only natural that once you refuse to tell them something, they will try to find out what it is and why. Most people who discovered my real identity were very gracious and kind and sympathetic and agreed to keep it a secret.  Some, however, did try to use it against me. On two or three occasions, finding out where I lived, or emailing me at work. There were, sometimes, vague threats to expose me and at least two very clumsy, quite menacing, attempts to use this knowledge in an effort to extract sex from me.

It reminded me that the things precious to you are meaningless to others if it’s a good anecdote.  People play fast and loose with anonymity, thinking it unimportant. “What have you got to hide?” is the battlecry of those who only search for the truth because it looks good to be in the know, rather than any compulsion for honesty. They don’t realise the acrobatics I had to go through to keep it to myself, the people I had to trust, the opportunities I’ve lost, the things I haven’t been able to share because it would all be compromised. I was not a bangle, an artefact, a prize; I was not to be collected.

Now that my anonymous days are over, I confess I miss them a little. My life hasn’t changed at all, tbh – I don’t get mobbed in the street or anything – but there was something about that shield of anonymity that made me feel more of an interesting proposition. But now it’s gone, I feel duty-bound to embrace it. I went on the radio. I’m appearing on a panel at the National Theatre for the Queer Theatre event to mark 50 years since the decriminalisation of homosexuality. I’ve started writing under my own name again. More importantly, I managed to get a personalised box of Corn Flakes. Amazing.

Oh, and my first novel, The Last Romeo, which broke the spell in January, is out next year. Basically, I started saying yes, and it feels nice to be myself again.

Am I phasing out The Guyliner? Is his time up? And am I really talking about myself in the third person?!?


I will always be The Guyliner, but now it’s time to be me. And it is worth remembering that I couldn’t have done any of it, not a single moment of the last seven years, without you.

Thank you. It’s so good to finally meet you.

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Main image: BBC/Radio 4


Bravery is an option, not an obligation

It’s interesting to note that in a world where people constantly claim anyone with a conscience or a complaint is being a “special snowflake”, stoicism is still pushed as an ideal, and largely adhered to, whenever there’s a hugely terrifying incident. It’s the stiff upper lip as a call to arms, the idea that true bravery is demonstrated through unblinking forbearance and the “keep calm and carry on-ification” of modern life.

But it’s not the only way.

I understand why, after the attack on Westminster Bridge earlier this year and the recent tragedy at Manchester Arena, the message was that the best way to stop the terrorists is to carry on as if nothing has happened. There’s a lot to be said for clambering straight back on the horse once it has hurled you out into the meadow. We are, most of the time, encouraged to talk about our feelings in an effort, for example, to break down stigma surrounding mental health, and to avoid PTSD taking hold, when something happens to us personally. And yet when a large crisis occurs in which we may not be directly involved but experiencing as spectators, on the periphery of the action but the heart of the emotion, the preferred coping mechanism becomes “getting on with it”.

The language used is powerful, emotive  and inspirational. It encourages pride, it swells our chests and injects us with a kind of euphoria to keep us going, like a mildly trippy painkiller or the collective buzz of experiencing a huge happy event together. There are vigils, yes, which go some way toward helping us express our emotions, but the general message is one of being unbowed, unbeaten, resilient, strong.

But I sometimes wonder where this strength is expected to come from.

Falling to pieces is not forbidden, or shameful, but it is not encouraged. And this is a problem for those who do not find that resilience comes naturally all the time. It is not automatic. The brute strength you may have had after the death of a loved one may desert you when faced with a terrorist attack in the place you call home. You are puzzled by its absence, perhaps, wonder what you’ve done wrong. Are you weak now, in this moment that has had no tangible impact on your life, when before you have been so strong? You may start to question whether your own vulnerability is valid, whether your inability to feel anything other than tired, devastated and frightened will be interpreted as attention-seeking or having misdirected priorities.

It may be an unusual thing to say in the face of the “keep calm and carry on” collective, but it’s OK to fall apart just a little bit. To lose yourself just a little, perhaps, if that’s what you need to build yourself back up and be stronger than ever. Like an old iPod that would always work much better if you let it run down and recharged the battery, sometimes you need to let yourself get to the brink, to void yourself of all emotion, anger and fear, before you can rise again.

It’s OK if you don’t handle it well, but there is a caveat: you must not fall apart alone. The talking it through, the making sense of it all, can still happen even if you’re not quite sure what you feel or what it all means, just as long as you have somebody helping you through it.

Bravery and stoicism are kind of expected now. It’s almost like you’re not being a team player if you have a meltdown. But if you do feel despairing of the human race and desperately frightened following the attacks, that is also a perfectly valid response. Just as long as you’re not feeling it all by yourself, keeping it in. And you’re not alone, by the way – thousands will feel like you. Talk to us.

People say beautiful poetic things after events like this, and they can be magical and inspiring, but sometimes you just want to scream a barrage of F-words and say that you don’t feel OK and holy shit your head is disappearing into itself with the sheer pressure of pretending you’re all right. Stuff like that. All fine.

We watch these events happen on the news and at times feel very disconnected from them, like it’s a spectacle or a Hollywood movie. But sometimes it’s a little too close to home, or we lose someone we knew, or kind of knew, or wish we’d known, and it becomes just the right side of relatable – which is why terrorists do this, to get us to notice – and suddenly it becomes real, and so do our emotions, which can be disconcerting and confusing.

We will carry on. And that’s exactly as it should be. But “keep calm and carry on” is a slogan on a tea towel; it isn’t a law. Bravery is noble, but merely an option. We are under no obligation to behave like an indestructible  warrior. Sometimes all we can do is be ourselves.

Get on buses, go to concerts, talk to strangers. Live.  We’re all doing OK today, and we’ll do better tomorrow, and great again someday soon. However long it takes you to feel that way again is OK – it’s not a race. Eventually you’ll see the bravery was there along – it helped you be honest about your feelings.

You’ll get there. We’re with you.

Image: Jonathan Schofield

My word of 2016: Luxury

I’ve seen quite a few people choosing their words of the year. Writing words about words – how meta. Most of them have been things like “Brexit” or “privilege” or “post-truth”, but these are all terms packed with meaning; they instantly come to life, teasing out memories and experiences. They’re devastatingly evocative. My word of the year, however, is quite the opposite. It’s a word which is now lost when removed from the confines of a sentence because it has become borderline meaningless.


It’s not uncommon for words to become less effective when they’re used more often. Words like “literally” and “amazing” have long since been dusted off from the shelf of superlatives and dragged down into everyday pedestrian usage, but they do at least retain a certain charm. “Literally” still adds emphasis, while “amazing” has a cute, knowing sarcasm to it. “Luxury”, however, is dead. Here lies Luxury, overused into oblivion, redefined into insignificance.

Luxury used to be unattainable, left only to billionaires, the titled or characters on ’80s soaps. Alexis Carrington in Dynasty lived a life of unrivalled luxury, swathed in furs, with caviar dotted around the room next to the ashtrays, and a gloved hand proffering chilled champagne never more than three feet away.

Historically, us mere mortals in the real world have often aspired to luxury, installing sunken baths or adding conservatories to the back of our knackered terraces, buying Babycham at Christmas, but we never kidded ourselves we were living the lush life. We knew we weren’t superstars with untold riches – and once the novelty faded, we got back to circling shows to watch in the TV Times or buying Wagon Wheels. The trouble with proper luxury was that it wasn’t sustainable for ordinary folk. Real life gets in the way.

But now luxury is something else. We want it so bad we are willing to snatch whatever we can get of it. We are prepared to pretend it’s something else entirely. We are telling ourselves anything even slightly above “bog-standard”, “perfectly suitable”, “basic but functional” or “horrid but appropriate” is a luxury– it is used as a distancing word, rather than a true expression of joy.

See all those “luxury flats” developers can’t help but throw up every time a small plot of land to build on becomes free. Stand still long enough in London and you’ll come to to find an M&S Simply Food built in your knickers with seven floors of luxury apartments above. What makes these flats so luxe? Gold-plated bathrooms?  A personal lift all the way to the top? A helipad? Well, no, sadly. In this case, luxury seems to mean a built-in dishwasher, cream carpets that will fuzz up the minute they meet a sock for the first time and magnolia walls. The shower and taps will be disappointingly chrome, in B&Q’s second cheapest range, and you will share your design of tiles with every other hastily knocked-up overpriced cell from Bermondsey to Bayswater.

A quick search on the Marks and Spencer website for “luxury” is a pretty good thermometer of where the word is going. Luxury canapés include – what else – smoked salmon, that well-known inaccessible food stuffs that proles can only stare open-mouthed at, as it gleams proudly from the shelves in Tesco. A luxury dressing gown seems only to have earned its title thanks to the fact David Gandy is modelling it, and luxury candles have only an inflated price to allude to their luxe credentials.

Supermarkets have long tapped into our snob potential with their silvery-packaged Finest and Extra Special and Taste the Difference ranges, but now it’s not enough for us to merely know we have better sausages than everyone else. We want the faux-luxury experience 24/7. Fauxury, maybe? No? Maybe? No. OK.

A luxury item is now lightly aspirational and reassuringly out of reach of someone who would either use the product wrong or not appreciate it, and thus embarrass the whole concept of luxury and its devotees. On Wednesdays, Luxury wears pink. It Instagrams its starter.

Luxury as a word tells us we can expect to pay more, that the product is not quite as basic as the one £5 cheaper than it and, in the case of most pre-packed food, there’ll be an ingredient within we’re not keen on but won’t complain because we assume it’s a LUXURY ingredient that we don’t understand. The amazing thing about Luxury is that it’s not just othering to people who still buy the basic range, it feeds into our own self-loathing and paranoid that we’re hugely unsophisticated. Case in point: Christmas is coming up and many families will try an “extra special” prepared gravy or stuffing or  pigs in blankets. Don’t bother – they’ll all taste like crap and you will blame your own primitive palate instead of daring to admit that sometimes, just sometimes, things that cost more or pretend to be luxe are actually terrible.

There’s nothing wrong with formerly luxury items becoming everyday. Asparagus! Pumpkins! Mobile phones! Debt! But elevating the standard or passable to deluxe status feels like we’re being cheated.

But maybe I am giving Luxury a bad rap. Is it so wrong to strive for something a little better, your fingers hovering over the prosecco two price-points up because it has a silver label and says it was “specially selected” for the supermarket? Why shouldn’t we reach for the stars and pretend that bottle of fizz is going to be uncorked after a seven-second ride in the express lift to our penthouse? Perhaps I am wrong to want nice things we perfectly deserve to be considered normal and available to everyone, rather than a rare treat we should be throwing ourselves on the ground and thanking a merciful God for.


Let’s not pretend a flat the size of a rat’s eye with a breakfast bar and no room for storage is in any way a luxury just because it has a dishwasher. A turd rolled in glitter is still just that.

Luxury – we barely knew you. Goodbye.

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Why people of all ages have lost their hearts to Norwegian teen show SKAM

For the uninitiated, Skam (or Shame in English) is a Norwegian TV show, aimed at teenagers, that details the lives, loves and confusions of the students of a particular posh high school in an Oslo suburb, focusing on one character’s story per season. It’s all in Norwegian, and rough translations are done by amateurs and only available to watch on Tumblr or via download links that disappear almost as soon as they’re made live. And yet, Skam is building a loyal, hungry audience – and it’s not just teenagers who are gripped.

The show is now in its third season and focusing on 17-year-old Isak, who’s on the cusp of coming out thanks to a sexual awakening by new arrival at his school Even, and when I first wrote about it for Gay Times, it was easy to see why some may have thought my interest in it was more down to my being a dirty old man than genuinely interested in the storytelling. It’s an old homophobic trope, that we’re only too happy to encourage, that any older gay man interested in what a teenager has to say has sexual motives, or is a paedophile.

The season 3 trailer featured a highly stylised dreamlike sequence – from Isak’s imagination, I guess – as our hero gazes upon his classmates in the locker room, in wonder, horror and embarrassment, on the outside looking in, when a carton of milk splatters on the locker above him, drenching him in it. It doesn’t take the Enigma machine to work out the symbolism the producers were going for, but the show is known for its glossy, suggestive trailers – the previous series trailer saw the main character, Noora, wake up in a room full of semi-nude beauties and a huge dildo on the floor – and it’s not at all representative of the series as a whole, which has a more diverse set of characters.

“You’re only interested in the men,” said one Facebook commenter. “Sexualising teenagers is OFF,” cried another. But the fact is teenagers are having sex, whether we care to admit it or not, and they certainly sexualise each other. We were all teenagers once and, depending on our confidence and social standing, having sex too. Why should’t we be interested in a show that tells stories like this so sensitively, and so well?

I’m not the only one who finds this window into a world a generation or two below us fascinating. Even Skam’s Tumblr fandom –traditionally behind the velvet rope for most people over 25, includes avid viewers well into their 30s and their 40s. Since writing about the third series I’ve been contacted by people of all ages to say how much they love it and do I know where they can see more.

So why is Skam striking a chord with people in their 20s, 30s and 40s? Is it really just a prurient interest in what teenagers do beyond Snapchat and Insta, or is it because, essentially, teenage problems are timeless – it’s only the tec that has changed? In the case of Isak’s story, it may be decades since some of us came out, and our own situation would have been wildly different from that of a privileged, yet messed up, Norwegian teenager, but the fact coming out still exists at all means we can still feel an affinity – and a pretty strong one at that.


Coming out isn’t usually portrayed that brilliantly on screen. Oh, sure, we tell ourselves it is, but usually we’re just so grateful to see a gay couple kiss or sit up in bed together that we’ll take pretty much any interpretation of our story. Usually, there’s either generous lashings of angst and misery, or Hollywood impossibility presented as fact, but it’s rare for a drama to get the balance just right – the perfect mix of wish-fulfilment, hope (both raised and dashed), lust, longing and, more importantly, everyday life. Because, even if your sexuality is tearing you to shreds on an hourly basis, life goes on, and you have no choice but to live it.

Isak and Even’s story begins with glances across a cafeteria but is given a kick start as they both escape a boring extracurricular group and go for a smoke. Quickly, Isak is hooked, doing all the stalker routines we never admit to anyone that we ourselves do – Googling Even, scrolling through his Insta, watching his videos and finding out what he’s into. Soon, Isak is immersing himself in all things Even, watching his favourite movies, listening to his preferred music and even having cardamom on a cheese toastie (long story).

Dramas come in the form of girlfriends, fear of homophobia and insecurity, which all block the path of true love. The use of girlfriends in the story is particularly painful to watch at times: many gay men have been guilty of using teenage girlfriends as smokescreens, playing with their emotions – very seldom in malice, but playing all the same – to hold on to their social standing or escape bullying. It’s a stark reminder that homophobia is harmful to everyone, LGBT or not.


The long silences and stultifying scenes of pretty much nothing are the most realistic of all. One scene consists almost entirely of Isak waiting for his sandwich to be toasted and nothing else. That’s the thing with coming-out stories, they can’t be quickly packaged up into convenient episodes. They don’t lurch from one dramatic scene to another, with killer lines delivered, before sweeping out of a room victoriously. They lumber along, slowly. They’re the dimmest of lights from the last embers of the fire, barely visible, but still not giving up hope that somehow, from somewhere, some kindling will turn up and make them burn brighter than before. But while we wait for the spark, we remain on a low light.

We go to school, we queue for our lunch, we listen to the teacher and we do our homework. We get the bus, we watch our favourite TV shows – and we still enjoy them – and we get the sleepless nights, but not every night. Life goes on, and while we may pine and worry, for the most part it’s buried deep within. It’s not so much a secret, or something shameful, just the thing that you can never acknowledge is happening, or tell the world, because once you do there is never any going back, and while the thought of it both excites and terrifies you, you cannot imagine life beyond it. You think it can never be. But all you know it is everything you long for and everything you’re scared of. It is in turns the entire world to you and utterly meaningless.


This is why Skam works so well. It’s both the coming-out we recognise and the one we wished we had. All the things Isak is dying to say, we wanted to say too, and when he says them and gets them all wrong and moves his progress at least ten steps backward, we nod and say, “Yes, that’s how it would have gone for me if I’d dared to say it” and when he wins, and has Even with him again – whatever we may think of the suitability of that relationship – we wonder if that could’ve happened to us. And perhaps then we kick ourselves for wasting so much time, or not taking a chance. Every lurch in Isak’s stomach is our own. We root for him, and he both delivers and disappoints. Maybe we can’t exactly identify with him now, but we can relate. We are all Isak at some point in our lives, but Isak can’t be all of us. When we are older and more “sane and sorted” and grappling with adulthood and middle-age, we forget about these days in a way – how we felt, what it was like to be lonely in crowded rooms, looking for a sign somebody understood. Skam has relit the fire in many, and it’s a valuable lesson for us to remember that coming out has not got any more fun in the last 20 years. We look back and recognise the naivety of their youth – they think this is the biggest problem they’ll ever have. We know different. 

It’s an immersive, almost claustrophobic experience, with clips added to the SKAM website in real time, and screenshots of text messages between Isak and the other characters. We’re living every moment with him.


Of course, the story has to move forward, so suspension of disbelief is required at certain stages. The flirtation kind of comes too quickly – although the bonding over music and dope is certainly how a lot of these things start, turning from hero worship into attraction before you’ve even realised it. And of course the sad truth is they are very often a one-way thing. It’s almost unthinkable that Isak would somehow manage to fall for another ostensibly straight guy that fancied him back, although Isak did harbour a crush on his best friend Jonas for long enough, which was unrequited. The show happens in real time, so the entire story has to be played out within the confines of the ten-week run, and this limited timeframe means silences that could last months have to be broken, but Isak’s sexuality hasn’t come into question overnight. The previous two seasons have touched upon it, from his interesting browsing history to his sham girlfriends, and even being outed by a ouija board; the evolution of this storyline has been totally on the level.


While Isak isn’t exactly a hugely popular student, some LGBT viewers whose adolescence was more of a struggle could be forgiven for feeling mildly envious of his situation. In one scene, shortly after he comes out to his close gang of buddies, they coach him on how to play it cool over text with Even. Why couldn’t I have had a a group of lads like that, you may wonder. How different might things have been if I had? You’re thrilled for Isak because even though it’s painful for him, he has that support network, he gets to go to the big parties, and you know, above all, he has time and progress on his side so it’s likely he’s going to be all OK. And even though Isak is a fictional character, your envy turns to hope.

But just as every coming-out is different, so must Isak’s be too. Years of unrequited crushes, furtive masturbation and trying to pass as straight is a pretty thankless way to spend your youth, and while we may wish our journey could’ve been as romantic and charged with passion as Isak’s, we know deep-down we couldn’t have that kind of coming-out for ourselves, and nor should we have. How we came out and dealt with our sexuality in our younger days made us who we are now. For better or worse, there was only one road to take. The main hope is that Isak’s story will inspire someone yet to embark upon their journey, and, when they do, keep them on course.

Fasten your seatbelt, kid, it’s going to be a bumpy forever.


Images: NRK/YouTube

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Bloggers are not the new pop stars

I had assumed it was all over.

I’d been brushing off my darkest black, digging out my finest mantilla and clutching my rosary in preparation for the funeral procession. Blogging was dead and buried, you see; its life force finally expunged thanks to Instagram, Twitter, Facebook and Medium. Or at least, that’s what I was led to believe, in pieces I read. By bloggers. On blogs.

But while I may have shed a tear for the demise of blogging, I wasn’t too perturbed, because I knew it would soon rise once more relatively quickly – probably before the sandwiches from its funeral tea had curled at the edges. It usually does.

I didn’t have to wait too long, because apparently, not only is blogging not dead, it is the new pop music. Oh yes! Take this excerpt from an email I received from a blogging network just this week. Step the hell aside, Calvin Harris – here is my moment.


Well! Who knew? One minute blogging is being read the last rites, now, bloggers are “glitzy celebrities” with “the world at their feet”. A cursory glance at my inbox, not to mention down at my immaculately polished Derbys, tells me this may not be happening for every blogger. I see no mountains of invites; my toes do not rest upon the Earth’s mantle.

So which is it? Is blogging throwing shapes to the sound of its own death rattle, or is it a den of internationally renowned celebrities, elegantly stepping off planes and into sponsorship deals as far as the eye can see? Well, it’s a bit of both, for relatively few. The rest of us are somewhere in the middle. Continue reading Bloggers are not the new pop stars

A clueless insider’s guide to London

Social anxiety manifests itself in many ways, but one of my main triggers is being asked to recommend a restaurant. All of a sudden, I turn from a relatively clued-up man with 14 years of London experience behind him into an unimaginative drone whose horizons are narrower than a gnat’s waist. Where have I even been? Did I like it? What does my recommendation say about me as a person? Will they judge me if they have an awful time? I never go anywhere! Why are they asking?

The trouble with living here every day and just getting on with my life is that it’s rare for things to register. I don’t really retain vivid memories of any of my London experiences, as I’m not a tourist, and I have a few favourite things I do often but would never dream of imposing on anyone else. London just is, it’s something that’s happening to me, not a standout event. So whenever anyone asks me to recommend a place to eat or an activity, in my capacity of a London expert – merely because I’ve lived here so long – I wrinkle my brow in faux-concentration and say, “Oh, let me think; I’ll get back to you” and then I never do.

But if there’s one thing that will get me talking, it’s cold hard cash. So when eBookers got in touch saying they were looking for London-based bloggers to share their tips for a new guide, how could I say no? All I’d have to do is think of some tips, write a blog (and hello here we are) and that would be that. But contractual obligations aren’t very sexy, so I thought I’d add some value and explain why I chose what I chose. You can see the full guide here, with some good tips from other bloggers. My contribution is here. Here are the 5 things I picked: Continue reading A clueless insider’s guide to London

Let me get a selfie

When was the last time you took a selfie? How often do you taken them? Do you share them? If you do, how many shots does it take before you settle on the perfect one? Did you tell a tiny fib to yourself as you totted up the numbers there? When it comes to admitting our selfie habits, it seems only questions about our sexual history come with more awkwardness.

I take them almost every day, usually a burst of about three or four. I take them and forget all about them; I don’t tend to make them public. They’re just for me. Sometimes I’m drunk, sometimes I’m worried about my hair and sometimes I wonder how I’m looking in this light, but I take them, am momentarily reassured – or, more usually,  horrified – and then they’re out of my head. I’m only ever reminded of them when I scroll through my camera roll, looking for a sassy meme or that GIF of Sable in Dynasty looking back over her shoulder and laughing. How strange, I sometimes think, that I took a picture of myself then. What was I thinking, I wonder. But I never know the answer. Well, almost never. There’s one set of selfies I remember very well, that’s with me every day. Continue reading Let me get a selfie