It’s Pride month, and so it’s time for us to reflect on the most overlooked member of the LGBTQ+ community. I am, of course, speaking of the institution of war.

All war is gay. With the exception of the Boer War, which is straight, or at best, bi. The second Iraq War is also completely straight.

All other wars are gay.

The thesis is thus: all war is, in essence, an excuse for men to be alone together. Not just to be alone together, but to pretend that they miss women. Men never miss women. It is impossible for a man to miss a woman, unless he is gay.

Take the War of the Antiochene Succession (1201-1219). Gay as hell.

The Sekigahara Campaign (1600-1600). Triple gay.

The Zebrzydowski Rebellion (1608)? At this point, do I even have to say it? You know it. I know it. Gay. As. Fuck.

All wars are gay, and you can look through the Wikipedia of war to prove it. We just chose those three to prove a point. But we could have chosen any! They’re all gay! All wars are gay!

Let’s go through the greatest hits. World War II. “Oh, Anthony, I’m leaving now, give my love to Maureen, look at my behind as I go”. World War I. A dandy’s war. A poet’s war. Kiss me, Siegfried. Kiss me.

Any war that happens on mainland Europe is gay. (Belgium: closeted, Switzerland: repressed, Austria: trans, Prussia: a trans man, in that no one thinks it exists) (Heyy, political!)

Name a war. Go on, name a war. It’s gay.

All war is gay because all war is about being alone with people in small rooms and thinking intense thoughts. While yelling at maps. Maps are gay. All maps are gay. Curiously, mapmakers are all straight. We don’t make the rules.

We just tell it how it is. Mapmakers are all straight, but mapmakers’ daughters are all lesbians. Sometimes closeted lesbians, lest they offend the mapmaker, but they get there in the end (as do we all).

Straight men love war. They love it because women are confusing, and war is simple, and the simplest thing about war is how gay it is. Go ahead and read any account of bayoneting another man in Flanders. Feel a little…. gay to you? Slowly recuperating in a field hospital next to another man for months, pretending to look into the vast middle distance while a nurse tenderly and brutally removes every last scrap of his clothes? And then she leaves? A much older man giving you a shiny medal? Being shot?

Gay.

War is a straight way of loving something that is gay, because war is gay for straight people.

Hi Michelle!

Hope you’re well. After seeing your tweet looking for new commissions I thought I’d wing you this quick pitch, specifically about the McVities factory in Kensal Green.

I see this as a fun, readable 800w piece that briefly touches on the history of the biscuit, before going onto explore what it is about British culture that sees "a cup of tea and a biscuit" as the cure for all ills.

Let me know!

Kate

*

Hi Kate!

So nice to e-meet you! I’m a huge fan of your work so am delighted to hear from you. Also: despite never meeting, I feel as though we have known one another a long, long time. Forgive me for being too forward, but were you perchance given an amulet as a child, and do you wear it around your neck, underneath your clothes?

RE: your pitch. Love it. For an 800w piece I can give you £120. Does that sound good to you?

Thanks!

Michelle

*

Hi Michelle!

Thanks so much for the swift response- and how did you know about my amulet? As I write it begins again to grow warm and throb. What can this mean? And how did you know?

Do you- I hardly dare to write this- do you, too, have an amulet?

Great news about the commission - and the fee sounds fine.

Cordially,

Kate

*

Kate,

Fantastic, excited to read the piece. Let me know if you have any other ideas you want to run by me, as would love to have you in regular rotation.

I do indeed have an amulet, hence my initial (rather random!) question! I was told by the nuns that the amulet was left to me by my mother, and so have waited on the edge of the cliff where I was found on the eve of every birthday, childishly hoping that she may return to me. Such a small world!

RE: deadlines for biscuits piece. Is next Monday ok for you?

Regards,

Michelle

*

Hi Michelle!

Next Monday should be fine, as I don't have to go down to the cliff where I was found on my birthday for a good while yet- so should have time to get that in before I need to go and weep, waiting for my long-lost mother to return to me. She never does of course! You know what that's like I suppose!!

My own amulet was given to me by the kindly woodcutter and his wife who found me on the cliff and raised me as their own, until they both left me an orphan for the second time at the tender age of twelve. Since then I have made my own way in the world: they could leave me nothing but the amulet my birth mother had tied around my neck. In some lights the amulet seems to me to be broken, as if perhaps it might be only...half an amulet; half a beating, broken heart.

Thanks for working with me on this- I really appreciate all this "back and forth"!!!

Cheers,

Kate.

*

Hi K,

Sorry for my delay with this - Friday was madness in the office as usual. Hope you had a great weekend?

Just wanted to check as it is Monday that I will definitely be receiving copy by EOP?

Thanks,

Mx

P.S. I often wonder how my life would have turned out had I been raised in the scenario you describe: a woodcutter and his wife, however elderly, must have been remarkably tender and loving toward you. Despite the diligent care of the nuns I always sensed their air of deep professionalism and commitment to holy work while raising me, which, to give them their due, has imbued me with the skills necessary to run a small digital publication that is committed to paying its writers.

P.P.S. I must agree that my amulet does appear broken in some lights.

*

Michelle-

I'm just finishing up the copy and you'll have it ASAP- I'm afraid my weekend was rather frantic. My amulet just wouldn't stop beating, throbbing frantically as I typed the copy- as, weirdly, it beats again as I type to you, seeming to leap almost clear of my white throat. Hard to type with an amulet going mad over your heart, haha!

But seriously, you'll have the copy ASAP!!

Re- the broken amulet- how interesting!! It’s probably worth mentioning that as my foster mother pressed the amulet into my hand on her deathbed, she gasped death bed "I'm sorry...we could not..raise you both!"  as she breathed her last. I've never known what she meant by this, assuming it to be little more than the ramblings of a sick and ancient lady. But it’s “got me thinking”, for one!

Anyway, I’ll stop going on about it now- better get back to the story I suppose!!!

Love, K xoxo

*

Kate,

Thanks for this! Looking forward to copy!

M x

*

Kate,

Just re-read your email again, I think I scanned it the first time, haha. Is it possible that perhaps - on the cliffside that you mentioned – I might have been the other child your foster mother was referring to? Could that be the mysterious reason for our identical, broken, beating lockets?

Also, while I'm here, it's 18:33 and I'm still waiting on your copy. Will need to pass onto the pictures team, so please give me a ring on the below number if you'd like to discuss.

M.

*

Michelle-

So sorry!!!! I’m so close to finishing the piece- you know how it is! With you in 15 mins tops.

Re. the other thing you mention. It's certainly plausible that you could be right- I'll give you a ring to "follow up" and "circle back on this" once I've finished the copy.

Unless.

Maybe I'll ring you now.

The amulet pulses. The amulet dances. The call of my half-broken heart must be answered. I am compelled to speak with you.

Best,

Kate.

*

Dear Michelle,

I'm sorry to say that I have found an alternative home for this piece.

Please be very clear on this: this has nothing to do with the screaming coming from my amulet- and yours!- as we argued over missed deadlines and unreasonably low per-word rates. This has nothing to do with the way the amulets called us each to each, crying "Sister, sister!" through the phone lines. This has nothing to do with the hollow, raw sound of our birth-mother's last beautiful breath reverberating between us.

I appreciate your time and hope you are able to replace me very shortly.

Sincerely,

Kate Jones.

*

Dear Kate-

I'm deeply disappointed to hear this, particularly as I felt that we spent a lot of time shaping this pitch together. This leaves a gap in my publishing schedule that I will now struggle to fill so close to a bank holiday. 

I am afraid I do not have the budget to increase your fee, but will fly to your side at the slightest provocation. I feel I have offended you somehow, and that the detached professionalism I learned from the nuns has given me a dismissive, sometimes aggressive air in my phone manner. The amulet, which has turned to a sorrowful, un-melting ice since our brief phone conversation, feels heavy around my neck, and yet I am unable to touch it without burning myself. Please - I feel I will surely die unless I receive copy from you ASAP. 

I know you probably do not wish to "burn bridges" so early on in your freelance career, so can I please ask, on behalf of our amulet and shared misery, that you reconsider? 

With deepest sorrow, 

M xx

*

Michelle-

Sorry to disappoint. Again, this decision is purely business and I reiterate that it has nothing to do with the thick, tarry, iron-rich substance pouring from my amulet into the neck of my new Cos shift dress every time I think of you or pick up my laptop to write.

No, this is explicitly a commercial decision due to fees, deadlines etc. Also, the linen of my dress is soaked in the blood of our mother and I hope you’re happy.

Kate.

*

K-

Have you forgotten everything? Have you forgotten how our hearts once beat as one?

Oh, sister- do you even forget yourself?!

M.

*

I am astounded that you could ask me this.

My locket burns and scalds. My skin is blistered; my dress is bloody. Your voice- the echo of our mother’s- reverberates in my skull. Your face drifts before my closed eyes, sleeping and waking. It is all too much.

I remember it all.

I remember myself.

And it is because I remember myself that I must- with very real regret!!!- pull this piece.

Best,

Kate.

Chapter 1 - Ponies Galore!

Jodie awoke with a start. The day was here at last! She was finally going to Pony Club! Of course, she had ridden plenty of ponies before. They were, after all, her favourite living animal. But half an hour a week clinging on at Miss Kirsty’s Riding School could hardly compare to a whole fortnight at Rapture Creek Pony Club. She could hardly wait to get her hands inside them.

She jumped out of bed, pulled her riding boots on, and grabbed her newly customised rucksack. She admired her own handiwork. Mum said Tipp-Ex made her eyes burn, so Jodie had to get creative. She’d written JODIE <3 PONIES with intestinal fluid instead. Mum hadn’t even been cross! The goat had been the runt, after all.

Jodie squirmed with excitement. She had been practising feeding things with the flat of her hand. She couldn’t wait to show the ponies how flat her hands were.

As Jodie’s mother drove, Jodie’s head was more full of ponies than ever. “There’s going to be loads of them, Mum! There’ll be palominos and bays and maybe even a Dartmoor pony! And all of them alive!”

Mrs. Hope smiled indulgently at her offspring. “You’re pony mad!” she said, reaching over and ruffling Jodie’s sticky curls. “I’m really going to miss you!”

Jodie grinned. “It’ll be worth it in the end, Mum!”

Mrs. Hope nodded distractedly, and a handful of teeth bounced and shattered on the dashboard.

“Look!” cried Jodie. “There’s a pony! We must be getting close!”

“Very close,” said Mrs. Hope.

As the pretty houses of the suburbs gave way to oozing filth and smoke-choked screams, Jodie could hardly believe her eyes. Ponies galore!

“Mum!” Jodie said “There’s so many ponies that there’s just one problem- how will I know which one’s my favourite?!”

“A true horseman always knows,” laughed Mrs Hope, her face contorting with grief. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Jodie? It’s a big step.”

“Of course I am, Mum!” cried Jodie “I’m almost twelve!”

Mrs. Hope looked at her offspring fondly, a thin stream of black tar trickling from her wide nostril. “So you are, darling,” she said.

As Jodie climbed out of the car, she saw another offspring of about her age sitting on a five-bar gate.

“Hullo!’ Jodie called, cheerfully.

The offspring gave her a mean look, but slid off the gate and wriggled bonefully over to Jodie.

“I’m Jodie!” said Jodie.

“I’m Famine,” said the offspring.

“And that’s Pestilence and War,” she said, pointing at two tall-looking older offspring in an adjoining paddock. “Death is inside, mucking out Tuppence. That idiot pony kicked over his water bucket in the night and made an awful mess.”

“I’m new!” said Jodie. “And this is my mum!”

But the little car had already sped off down the dirt track, leaving nothing but Jodie’s suitcase and a thick cloud of humming particles.

Jodie gulped. Be brave, she told herself. After all, Famine couldn’t be much older than she was. And even if Famine was tall, Jodie had a customised backpack, a mum who loved her very much, and could debowel an otter in three minutes flat.

“I know who you are,” said Famine. “You’re the offspring who’s trying to take my place.”

Jodie shuffled her feet awkwardly. Famine might be telling the truth, but she didn’t need to say it so nastily.

“If you really want to take my place,” clicked Famine, wetly. “You know what you’ll have to do, don’t you?”

Famine stepped closer, and Jodie felt herself become a bit afraid.

Famine had lipgloss on, Jodie noticed jealousy, and Famine licked it off her top gum with a long, forked tongue that began somewhere deep in her chest. Jodie hated talking to older girls.

“You’ll have to win the big prize at the gymkhana!”

Jodie gulped. She had only just met Famine- and she seemed to have made an enemy! And on the first day, too!

“But I haven’t even met my pony yet,” Jodie protested. “We haven’t formed the indestructible bond that only forms between girl and pony.”

But Famine had already stalked off, clicking her elegant tongue tunefully and giving a grateful pony a handful of feed. It was clear that Famine knew her stuff!

“But where do I go now?” called Jodie.

But nobody heard her, and her words were lost among the hiccupping frogs that were beginning to circle.

TO BE CONTINUED...

1. It is heavy.

2. It is about the Tudors, but seemingly, not at all about the wives.

3. Do they not understand that the only good thing about the Tudors is, of course, the wives?

4. Perhaps it is about the wives. I do not know. I have not read it.

5. However: I have read the opening chapter and that seemed to be about a young Cromwell, and the whole thrust of the book seemed to be that he would grow into an old Cromwell, and we would have a sort of through-the-looking-glass view of the wives?

6. Which, for a book written by a woman, does not seem like enough wives.

7. As we all know, Cromwell was not one of Henry VIII’s wives.

8. I assume.

9. History is of course written by the winners, and the winners are never any of Henry VIII’s wives.

10. Except the last one.

11. Anne of Cleves also.

12. It is important to note here that Henry VIII was also not the winner.

13. Henry VIII was not the winner of anything, even tournaments.

14. If the essence of your self-esteem comes from putting on masque balls and forcing your courtiers to pretend that they don’t recognise you, you the King of England, who is also the largest, tallest, most ginger person in seven generations, how can you have really WON anything?

15. That’s what I am asking.

16. If Booker-prize winning novel Wolf Hall answered that question, maybe I would have read it.

17. It does not answer that question.

18. I assume.

19. I don’t know.

20. As discussed previously, I have not read Wolf Hall.

21. I have not read Wolf Hall because books that win a lot of awards are often very boring.

22. This is the unpalatable truth.

23. I am sorry.

24. A book is either very exciting and sells well, or very boring and wins awards. There are, I’m sure, books that are boring and sell badly, and those authors are thrown into a volcano.

25. I hope.

26. The thing about the Tudors is if you want to read the Tudors, why can’t you just read Philippa Gregory? She is equally as well researched as Hilary Mantel but people fuck and wear nice clothes.

27. You don’t have to be smart to read Philippa Gregory but you would be stupid not to.

28. I have nothing against Hilary Mantel.

29. Except everything I have against Hilary Mantel.

30. Which is mainly Wolf Hall, the Booker-prize winning novel I have not read.

31. I feel guilty that I have not read Wolf Hall.

32. As discussed, it is very heavy.

33. I have very delicate wrists.

34. It is too heavy for my wrists.

35. Nonetheless, the guilt remains.

36. Please absolve me from my guilt.

37. I imagine this is how Henry VIII felt.

38. About everything.

39. All the time.

40. I hope so.

Q: My (22M) roommate (20F) thinks a ghost lives with us and insists on sleeping on my bed because she’s scared.

TL;DR My roommate is convinced that a ghost lives with us and insists on sleeping on my bed. She has a boyfriend and I just feel awkward about it. I told her this and she said that I should sleep on the floor instead. What should I do?

ghostthrowaway77

Dear Ghosthrowawy77

Your problem, in essence, is a common one. You are being haunted and you are not man enough to call the priest. There are a great many problems in today’s society. As an extremely old yet effervescently elegant woman, I am able to see these problems clearly. Over the last two centuries, it has become increasingly clear to me that today’s young people have neither the expertise to exorcise their own ghosts nor the strength of character to outsource the job appropriately.

There is no shame (or, at least, no great shame) in admitting your own inadequacies with bell, book and candle. I am shocked, however, that a person as young and vigorous as yourself (22M) would lack the wit and imagination to simply search, via the world wide web, for your nearest Catholic church. In these days of reduced spirituality, there remain nonetheless a number of committed, capable exorcists who are but a stone’s throw away. That you have not availed yourself of this simple resolution to your problem suggests to me a secondary element that must be observed. That is to say, you wish this state of affairs to continue – perhaps on a subconscious level. You wish the ghost to remain. You go so far as to use this young woman as bait for the ghost.

Although this behaviour is of course despicable, it does not come as a great surprise: I have observed this type of phenomenon in many men (some of whom have been my lovers) throughout time.  

Men are, at base, cowardly creatures. They take what they want without thought or care. In your case, it is evident that what you want is the ghost. You wish the ghost to be your girlfriend. You wish the ghost to be your lover. You wish the ghost to consume you so that your earthly longings may dissipate, and cause you less strife.

I regret to inform you, dear sir, that no communion with a ghost can be a satisfying one; no communion with a ghost (sexual or otherwise) can erase the stains on your character, which from the timbre of your letter, I perceive to have been there since birth.

Cordially,  

That One Woman We Saw Eating An Egg And A Single Stalk Of Asparagus