No Pride And Groom (From The Argus)

No Pride And Groom

3:40pm Friday 27th November 2009 in Blogs By Quentin Delahunty – Liberal. Creative. Brightonian

No Icing On The Cake For Quentin

As well as being a creative, a liberal, a media revolutionary, a zeitgeist-wrangler and a gifted blogger, I, Quentin Ludovic Alphonsus Delahunty, am also a parent. This particular string to my bow may not get me business lunches in Shoreditch House or invites to uber-avant-garde art exhibitions in Brighton, but it gives me satisfaction that none of my other (varied and great) achievements can offer.

When one is a parent, one becomes a human-sized Swiss Army knife, capable of multi-multi-tasking. From applying a plaster to a wounded knee while re-inflating a bruised ego to wiping a bottom whilst checking hair for nits, a parent is an incredible amalgam of doctor, nurse, psychologist, politician, teacher, tinker, tailor, soldier and indeed spy.

However, despite the unpredictable nature of the parental journey (which makes Michael Palin’s Pole To Pole look like a trip the corner deli for some black-bean dip), us dads and mums predictably clutch, close to our hearts, certain dreams and hopes for our beloved childers. Therefore, when our progeny are blown off-course by the inevitable winds of change, it can be a jolting and unnerving experience, one that makes you question yourself and indeed everything you stand for.

Such a moment happened for cette écrivain a couple of days ago, when I finally came to the conclusion that my son, dear Lex, is in fact, straight.

I have always considered myself to be an open-minded man, one able to deal with the myriad curve balls the baseball game of life pitches our way. However, I must admit, I had spent the previous years of Lex’s life expecting, one day, to have an archetypal Brightonian big day out, maybe at the Royal Pavilion, at a classically liberal south-coast gay wedding. There, as father of one of the grooms, whilst wallowing in a sea of progressive liberalism, I would give a monumental speech, mixing Peter Tatchell’s hard-nosed passion with Obama’s hope-filled rhetoric, and adding just a touch of Stephen Fry-esque wit, in a 4-D vocalisation of the rainbow flag of gay acceptance, which would touch the guests and more importantly, move the happy couple to tears of joy (I had always pictured the Lexmeister marrying a rugged-looking environmental campaigner from a good family, maybe black or at least mixed-race). But behind all those dreams, I guess, deep down, deep deep down, like all parents, I always knew.

However, now, I am facing up to the fact that Lex may well be a common-or-garden heterosexual. Of course, there is nothing wrong with this, although I myself loiter somewhere in the middle of the sexual preference spectrum. As you can imagine, not tied down by convention, I have dabbled in man-on-man love. Indeed, as a sexually adventurous and incredibly handsome student I enjoyed a brief yet torrid affair with a Jim Morrison-look-a-like son of a Gambian diplomat, which did, at least for a while, light my fire.

However, despite the unpredictable nature of the parental journey (which makes Michael Palin’s Pole To Pole look like a trip the corner deli for some black-bean dip), us dads and mums predictably clutch, close to our hearts, certain dreams and hopes for our beloved childers. Therefore, when our progeny are blown off-course by the inevitable winds of change, it can be a jolting and unnerving experience, one that makes you question yourself and indeed everything you stand for.

So why do I think Lex is straight, I hear you ask? “He plays football”?, “He doesn’t like dolls”? Stop with the clichés, man. Jocasta and I, to our credit, have handed both Lex and his sister Nimsie an equal opportunities childhood – from ballet to football, dolls (not the major corporate branded dolls but hand-made ethnic ones, obviously) to action figures (again, not the fascist branded military ones but rather eco-warrior and native American figurines). And, thankfully, due to their gender-unspecific childhood, both Lex and Nimsie are growing up free of a gender straight (or gay)-jacket, able to traverse the boundaries of masculinity and femininity in one liberal and fully secure leap, like a tourist standing on a gender Equator.

No, my inkling about Lex’s sexual compass has less to do with the toys he plays with and more to do with his sudden preoccupation with breasts and attractive women on TV, from Shakira to Alesha Dixon (impressively ethnic) to Tess Daley and Pixie Lott (boringly western). And I don’t think he sees them as just “divas” either. (Yes, we do occasionally watch trashy TV in our Hanover residence, albeit through irony-tinted spectacles)

So is this just a phase he’s a-goin’ through? Maybe, just maybe. Indeed, he is still only six. However, as I already said, a mother or a father just knows. And anyway, who am I to judge? I shall support him in his unbridled heterosexuality, and be forever proud to call him my son.

As for Nimsie – well she is yet to nail her colours to the sexual mast, although her current penchant for golf and sensible shoes is encouraging, I have to admit. (This is an ironic joke, yeah? If you find it genuinely funny without getting the irony, then hop on the bus back to Worthing, okay?).