In many ways, indeed, going for an Indian enhances my sense of brute manhood, conforming as it does to that classic British male stereotype: the tikka-massala-guzzling, breast-obsessed drunk.Īt the opposite end of the scale, on the other hand, you have situations such as that described above, where everything about the dynamic - the intimate surroundings, the sparkling wine, the friend with the high-pitched voice and crisply pressed chinos - screams "gay" for all the world to hear. Curries, for instance, are hardly any problem at all, especially if I'm with my mate Douggie, a rugby-player whose lumbering frame and scrunched ears allow for no confusion whatsoever as to his sexual orientation. My discomfort levels do vary depending on the type of restaurant and the person I'm with.
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