Will McAdam

“Oh,” I thought, “oh. This is obviously about class.” It wasn’t, but I’d like to think it was; I always do. It’s an inevitable symptom of being the working class hero that my picture quite plainly shows that I am. Just because a man has a fringe bigger than his face doesn’t mean his parents never once owned a house within spitting distance of the mines. Ok, so that last part isn’t true, my parents never lived that close to any mines, and I’m not actually working class; I do, however, have a fucking massive fringe. A “bouff”, if you will. And, like Samson, it’s where my power lies, or at least my own deluded belief that I have any power. I don’t know about you, but I seem to spend most of my time trying to climb the greasy pole (a little pun for the boys there) and “get in” with people whose knowledge of mines is vaguely connected with Africa, and Diana. It’s highly tragic, but I’m going to have to get a job sooner or later and, frankly, I’d rather not have to apply for one.

The only problem is, coming from the Neale-Wade Community College or NWCC as we fondly never abbreviated it, means that I really am starting from scratch. Even living next door to a guy from Eton for a year didn’t have a positive impact it ought to have had. That potential foot in the door didn’t bear any fruit and, I’m going to quite candid about this, he really could have done more to advance me, especially after I did him the enormous favour of helping to end his girl troubles…by turning him gay. (I’m sure you will be as shocked as I was to find out that public schools produce homosexuals too). As this anecdote evidently proves, I’m fairly munificent, yet the offers for no-strings social advancement are still few and far between.

Even my teeny-tiny I’m-so-European-yet-I-still-get annoyed-by-French-strikes shorts haven’t helped me in my quest to move on up. It’s at this point that I would mention how I saw Lily Cole leaving an exam in nothing but ordinary clothes, while I was wearing my outrageous shorts and a top that showed off my tan-from-a-bottle collar bones that could cut through ice. But I don’t want to brag about the envious look she gave me as I strolled on past, Gloria Gaynor blaring from my iPod, man-bag positioned somewhere between my shoulder and my wrist. To brag about that would highlight my underlying desire to “get in” with her and, as you might well surmise, that’s not something I desperately want her to know. I’m sure she’d love the fact I spent over a hundred and fifty quid on a bag that I’ll only ever use in Cannes, on the wrong side of the red carpet.

But bar my brief sidewalk triumph over a supermodel I really had had very little success in advancing myself socially, until I had my interview for The Tab. It turns out that, as a “columnist extraordinaire” (not a label I chose, but people will bandy these things about), I am allocated the dishy-est of the three editors to oversee my produce. I won’t name names (I mean I wouldn’t want to fall out of favour with Jack and Taymoor – the potential for social advancement is too critical), but I have certainly landed lucky. I, of course, wore the tightest jeans I own to the interview and it would seem that the rest is history. I certainly feel I caught my editor’s eye. Never underestimate the influence of a stylish gay man’s thighs is the lesson that those three learnt that happy springtime afternoon. I’m definitely in there, I thought, as I gently stroked my surprisingly bestubbled face.

I have therefore come to the conclusion that, if you’re having problems “getting in”with anyone (presuming your contact from Eton has gone poppy for cock and forgotten you), the only answer is to whack on the fake tan and get your legs out. It certainly works for me – and surely that’s the only evidence you’ll ever need?