what could be more queer than three fabulously dressed men making a pilgrimage to zhuzh up their unfortunate straight friends’ home?
I must start with a disclaimer.
I’m writing about Christmas as if it were proper Christmas; the one with crinkled Quality Street wrappers migrating down the side of the sofa and night upon night of, ‘Let’s have a drink before Christmas!’ I’m talking about the kind of Christmas we know and love, of Home Alone, a hangover and the javelin in the middle of a chocolate orange. Of being lightly tickled by Aunty Jean’s beardy whiskers as she leans in for a boozy kiss, cake in one hand, sherry in the other.
When I say ‘Christmas’ I’m not talking about Christmas 2020, whatever that will look like. I don’t mean tapping on your nan’s window while trying to emote behind a mask and cheers-ing with a Thermos of mulled wine. I mean that full feeling of a third portion of turkey pressing into your ribs, the feeling that pre-empts a nap and later, leftovers. That’s what I’m talking about. It’s Mariah Carey, it’s glitter and tinsel. It’s cinnamon-scented and studded with dried fruit that look like jewels. It’s camp. It’s Christmas.