A small cactus has been taped to a lamp-post in our working-class town. A live cactus, pot and all. Next to it is a note, running something like this:
Jamie, you bastard.
Why did you have to go off and fucking die on me like that.
I was going to buy flowers but that would have been a bit gay for you. So I bought this one instead.
Miss you mate,
The cactus and note are surrounded by flowers from other people. A small memorial.
It usually makes me angry when people leave off doing something because it is ‘gay’. But not this time. And not just because you don’t get angry with people who mourn.
It’s because underneath the thin layer of butchness, it is the most open expression of affection between men that I have seen in some time.
And it does not matter whether we call that gay, or homosocial, or whatever.