He wants your sex, apparently

It's almost the end of January, but sunny days and bright evenings still feel so far away. Every day is like watching an Ingmar Bergman retrospective. In the original Swedish. It's no wonder half the country is wandering around in a fug, complaining of Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Unless, of course, they're George Michael. Having £120 million in the bank means you can afford to follow the summer around the world, so the only clouds you need ever see are the ones that occasionally form in your bong water. 

Rather than terrorising London's photo developing shops, everyone's favourite mishap-prone Greek (besides Prince Philip) is currently living it up in Sydney, where he divides his time between a rented cliff-top apartment and suites at the Park Hyatt Hotel. In the afternoons he likes to pop into The Hunky Dory Social Club for a glass of white wine, and can often be found grabbing a bite to eat at The Manta Ray restaurant. 

Whether it's the sun, the lifestyle or the countless burly truckers, something about Australia seems to agree with George. And the feeling's mutual - George is still very big down-under, as if all that distressed denim he used to wear left us in any doubt. 

I'm sorry, what was that? You don't care where George Michael stopps off for a chilled Chablis? Well somebody must. Otherwise, why else would the Daily Mail choose to run an entire article about his Australian exploits? 

Reading between the lines (few of which seem to actually connect with one another), the poorly-written story isn't really about George's recreational activities. It's just another opportunity to paint gays with a broad brushstroke, as a subspecies of sexually deviant hedonists. 

It starts out accusing a fan of posting a fake George Michael profile on 'Scruff', a networking app for guys into "bears, furred, inked, uniformed, jocks, geeks and more." This, despite the fact that the leader on the paper's homepage incorrectly states that his profile is on the "sordid site Grindr". 

Six paragraphs in, and the story changes. Now, the paper has decided that it's George himself who has created the profile, using the name 'Sydney rocks'. Another three paragraphs later, it's back to an official spokesperson for the singer, who says "We hear about stories like this all the time and they always turn out to be pranks." So is it George, or an overzealous fan? In the Mail's eyes, it doesn't really matter. 

Interestingly, the writer even makes reference to the fact that George was happy to "rub elbows with the hoi polloi" - a disingenuous statement that manages to make him sound like an aloof elitist, even as it acknowledges that that's not the case at all. And anyway, if he is on Scruff or Grindr, it's not their elbows that he's interested in rubbing. 

But who cares about things like facts and narrative, when you've got a lifestyle to disparage? It's far more important to reference George's entourage of "shrieking male pals" or the fact that he's been busy "painting Australia’s largest city pink for the last month." 

This lazily homophobic article comes as no surprise, especially from a paper which recently caricatured two gay men excluded from a Christian-run bed and breakfast as swastika-tattooed Nazis. Or that ran a Melanie Phillips column this week, lamenting the fact that "just about everything in Britain is now run according to the gay agenda." 

If there is such a thing as a gay agenda, it's been developed by mean spirited tabloid hacks to portray the gay community as a bunch of insidious, morally bankrupt "McCarthyites". They're keeping their fingers crossed that, rather than looking for evidence and reason, their readership will be willing to take it on Faith. 

I see you baby...

Do you believe in Gaydar (and I don't mean the popular hook-up website or its affiliate digital radio station)? I mean the unspoken connection between two gay people that instantly allows them to recognise one another as 'like minded individuals'.

For years, people have struggled to explain what exactly gaydar is. Some people mistakenly mischaracterise it as the fleeting acknowledgment of mutual attraction, but they're missing the point.

The ability to recognise a kindred spirit involves much more than just blind luck or a vigorous libido. It's a heady combination of instantaneous signals and mirrors, almost invisible to the naked eye. Failing that, garish colours and a swishy walk can also be a dead giveaway.

Nonetheless, the unexplained mystery that is 'gaydar' has long perplexed some of our brightest minds. As a result, hundreds of hours that could have been spent getting waxed or crunching abs at the gym, have been frittered away in shapeless lab-coats, by boffins desperate to decipher a code that would even have Robert langdon scratching his head.

Over the years, scientists have looked at ambidextrous ability, finger length, spatial reasoning and even the clockwise swirl of our hair, to try and identify what make someone 'look gay'. It was so much easier back in the day, when all it took was a George Michael earring and a handlebar moustache that you could hide brunch in.

As time marched on the explanations started to get more and more ludicrous, rather like the Rocky sequels. So thank heavens for the Dutch scientists who have managed to reintroduce some logic to their somewhat intangible field of study. Examining how heterosexual and homosexual people focus their attention, they discovered "gays are much more detail-oriented."

In a study that involved pictures of squares and rectangles packed with smaller shapes, the gays answered questions about the shapes slower than their heterosexual counterparts, but with much greater accuracy. Apparently, we're much better at focusing on the minutiae.

OK, that's not, in itself, much of a revelation. After all, gay dating sites have such intensely detailed profile pages, you could apply (and be accepted) for a mortgage in less time than it takes to stick your picture in someone else's inbox. Whereas straight dating sites might ask whether you're old or young, thin or fat, the gay equivalents put applicants through the kind of rigorous profiling that makes the MI5 recruitment process look lackadaisical.

Apparently, gays gone-a-courting want to know everything - height, weight, girth, hair colour, original hair colour, piercings, tattoos, healed-over piercings that seemed like a good idea at the time, bitchy ex-boyfriends, star sign, earning potential and preference regarding Paris vs Nicole. It's a veritable minefield.

So what does this all mean? Well, if gays are able to hone in on the tiniest details, this "could help them to detect others' sexual preferences." According to the Dutch study's somewhat self-evident findings, "people who are naturally more perceptive and detail-oriented may have a greater chance of picking up on subtle clues in other people that they may be homosexual." What a shocker.

Still, it's a shame that these findings are coming to light just as they become utterly redundant. With digital apps like Grindr now installed on every gay iPhone and enabling people to track the movements of complete strangers, the concept of gaydar has become rendered little more than an evolutionary footnote.

Having said that, even with the most up-to-date technology at our disposal, it is possible to occasionally miss the signs. Damn those sneaky gays...

The winner is...

Now it's Joe's turn to struggle through The Climb. Only he's making it sound easy - which is why he really needs to win this. Simon looks much more interested in this version (he's actually watching it). Here's the choir, and here's the key change. It's all coming together - Hannibal Smith couldn't have planned it better himself.

The judges are falling over themselves to tell Joe how great he was. Cheryl's also doing her amazing voice wobble - nothing gets those voting fingers working like seeing our National Treasure on the verge of tears. She hasn't had much luck in her life, we'd better hit the phones. Oh dear, seeing Joooooooo's sassy old Nan has tipped her over the edge, it's a make-up catastrophe.

Now say 'hello to George Michael who's popped up to do his cheesy Christmas song. He gave it away for free last Christmas (along with his heart), but this year, rather than give it to someone special, he's charging for it. He's singing it very nicely. It's all about Jesus coming to stay - he's probably a better houseguest than the extended family, and less likely to complain that the sprouts are underdone.

The next guest "practically invented pop music". Amadeus?. Elvis? No, it's Sir Paul McCartney. The man who gave us Wonderful Christmas Time. Thanks for that. He's tried to recapture his Beatles look, but would be more at home on the 'men who look like old lesbians' website. Of all the great songs he wrote, he's decided to open with Baby You Can Drive My Car. Now he's doing Live And Let Die. It's better but his voice is wobbling as though his piano stool has been set on vibrate. Someone also needs to have a word with the guitarists, it's not their show.

Lines are closed, ads are finished, shouting lunatics placated. Ten million votes have been counted and the lights are down. Joe's giving prayer-face and Cheryl looks more nervous than he does.

And the winner of the X-Factor is... Cheryl Cole. Oh, and Joe. I'm guessing that those stories about Cheryl leaving the X-Factor may be a smidge premature, don't you? Joe can't stop grinning, but that could just be the teeth. Insincere air kiss between Dannii and Cheryl, but then she's too busy nestling in Simon's burly chassis. Rachel just grabbed Joe's microphone to give him a shout out, but it was all about her.

Now, who's up for a live blog about Susan Boyle? Kidding!

Part 3 - in 3-D (may not work with some older models)

Welcome back to part three of tonight's live X-Factor coverage, thank you for reading. Stacy's 'Feeling Good' and she's wearing a much nicer outfit this time. Her bits were a bit flat, so here's Michael Buble to show her how it's done. It seems to have worked because she's doing much better now that he's given her something pretty to look at. All things considered it was a pretty good performance, but all her sophistication went out the window when she stopped singing to introduce La Bubble to the stage. 


Now it's Olly's turn, and he's singing Angels. I can't for the life of me imagine who the surprise guest might be. Anyone got any ideas? Gosh, I'm on the edge of my seat wondering who it might be. Oh my god, I can't believe I'm saying this (sarcasm) - it's Robbie. His eyes are regular sized this time, which is a relief. Olly just said "Go on mate" as though Robbie needed his permission to continue. Their voices are similar. Not necessarily a great thing, but then taste is subjective. Robbie has a touch of the pinkeye, and needs to go easy on the fake tan, but he seems happy enough. 


Joe doesn't want your the son sun to go down on him. George Michael has dragged himself away from the heath long enough to belt it out with the Geordie wunderkid. The harmonies are working well, and if Joe doesn't win, then it's clearly a global conspiracy and the authorities need to get involved.