Mane Attraction: How the Lionesses unlocked football for a generation of gay men.

Confusing us with girl crushes, soothing our playground PTSD, and giving us something to be truly proud about. Lioness fever has been such an exciting whirlwind for Britain's LGBT community.

Watching The Lionesses’ victory in a canalside pub yesterday was the first time I’ve ever watched a football final with my Mum. It was also the first time that I’ve walked into a pub to watch a sports event of my own accord, and it was probably also the first time I’ve felt proud to be British since the pain of Brexit.

No wonder Prince William was there in Switzerland with his new girl-power firebrand Charlotte, this is the first time Britain’s felt faintly cool since Danny Boyle directed the Olympics and booked Pet Shop Boys. In the arts Britain excels continuously, we have Charli XCX, Tate Modern and the musical Six. But sport… men’s sport… with its prima donna closet gays and gangland playboys driving cars that look like 90s Micromachines … oh who gives a flying fuck.

I used to think that Men’s football was for children and layabouts. “I’m a real gay man, I have sex with men, I don’t need the watered down version on ITV”, I would tell myself. There are few things more annoying than those moany little toddler-dults and those never ending discussion panels in which millionaires wear Gieves & Hawkes suits that are too tight for them and pull foamy opinions out of their arses. No thank you darling. In gays bars we use TV screens properly - to show Madonna, or porn, or often both, and rightly so. I was defiant in my dislike for footie, as are millions of gay men.

But now there has been a sea change. I don’t think I’m alone as a gay man when I say that Women's Football has changed my life a little bit. I realise now that much of my dislike for football wasn’t wholly real, it was projected, conceived through tears in the playground and spun in a world of male hatred. I actually quite like football … I just needed a good team to hook me in, some nice personalities to get behind, and someone on the screen to relate to.

I know I’m being a tedious gay cliche when I say that I have a purring admiration for strong women, but it’s true - I’d rather meet Davina McCall than the Pope, I once wrote fan mail to Billie Piper in scented gel pen, and I see Jane McDonald in concert more often that I see my own father. When I’m on a long haul flight I simply type ‘Maggie Gyllenhaal’ or ‘Kirsten Dunst’ into the in-flight box office and watch anything that they’ve made without even reading the synopsis. My scant knowledge of British politics is because I’m low-key obsessed with Fiona Bruce, and when as boys we collected Warhammer soldiers, I opted for a battalion of “elf maidens”.

On my first Bebo page I said that my favourite celebrity was Emma Chambers - Alice from the Vicar of Dibley - what a diva! And when other boys were playing with Action Men, I had a collection of carboot sale Barbies that my mum tactfully called “He-Man’s Friends”, all modelling daring outfits I’d designed out of tinfoil and cling film (you should have seen the cocktail stick Barbie choker in my ‘94 summer collection - I was years ahead of McQueen)

Is it any wonder that I’m also now gagging for women’s football? Because while I fancy men in my real life, and occasionally even share a bed with them, I look up to women as role models and always have done. Women are the creators. Men are just spunk and hair gel.

But in the Lionesses I’ve found something worthy of my attention. The Lionesses have taught me about myself this summer. They’ve offered me this olive branch - a way to learn about and enjoy football on my own terms, without the negativity, the violence, the homophobia, the gut-wrenching talk of big ugly money, and the tedious mincing closet-case pantomime of the men’s game. Gone are the sporty boys who never accepted me at school, I am no longer required to give football the middle finger out of emotional turmoil and spite. The Lionesses don’t just play football, they radiate.

It’s funny because, even typing this onto my Substack, a voice inside me says “No!! You are not allowed to discuss football! Football is not for you! It is not your thing! You are bad at it! You know nothing!” But the Lionesses have shown me the lie of this. Looking around the pub last night at the pot-bellied men, I wondered if I might have been one of the best footballers in the room, in fact. Maybe I’ll give it a go? I might not have all the sad wanker lingo befitting of the divorcees propping up the bar, but my passion is there now - it is genuine. I now suspect that, like grey squirrels jealously murdering red squirrels, straight boys sometimes use a pack mentality to push down gays at a young age because they spot that we are different, they sense that we are special.

That’s not to say female footballers can’t have an attitude about them. But without being an expert even I can see that Women’s Football is better in its conduct. When the games do inevitably turn a little bit hairy, and everyone is tired and starts falling all over the place, you see the female players helping their opponents to get up again, patting each other on the back, and smoothing out their quarrels with manners and diplomacy. They breathe fire into the game, but they know when to turn the tap off. I had no idea football could be such an impressive display of morals and … well … sportsmanship. In Women’s Football we see the theatre of the sport but we see its humanity too.

After last night’s victory - the way the girls were posing in the ticker tape, and taking it in turns to get their photo with the trophy, there was something so joyous and judicious about it that I’ve never witnessed on those unfortunate occasions that I’ve been wedged into a family sofa and forced to watch men play football on the telly, spitting and swearing at each other and rolling around in their own crocodile tears.

Plenty of men have tried and failed over the decades to initiate me into football. Like many gay men, I was hastily dismissed as bad at sport when I was young, called a “big girls blouse” and accused of “not wanting to get my knees dirty” (which is funny because I would go on to run a drag queen agency, surrounded by big girls blouses, and as for the dirty knees … well you need only check Berghain’s CCTV). Perhaps gay men develop over a longer arc, because today, 6 foot 4 and broad, I reckon I’d be alright at football or rugby, but back then - I was a shy creative child, perplexed by the world around me.

Looking back now I wonder if my teachers lacked the nuance to spot that I was a bit of a nutcase and unlock the latent gladiator within me. I was delicate as a youth, I enjoyed reading books aimed at girls, and drawing large complicated pictures of Elizabethan gowns, inspired by a book of Tudor fashions that I found at a village garden fete. I built a robust inner world, perhaps as a defence mechanism against my parents who were always arguing and fighting. I am an only child, and perhaps I struggled to adapt to team sports, having men shout at me and blow whistles and tell me to run around plastic cones pointlessly was all a bit of a shock. I was a baby gay, a budding narcissist, a Vengaboys megafan, and here was some pig-faced idiot with a whistle around his neck telling me I’m not good at something!

My Dad never taught me any sports, he was a photographer who spent his days developing photos in a dark room, fag in mouth, beer on the go, glam rock playing quietly off the stereo.

But I wasn’t completely disinclined to physical activity. In later years, like many gay men, I would find my sporting prowess on the dancefloor, in the bedroom, and in gyms where I could be left alone on a treadmill listening to Gwen Stefani. I went kayaking in Vietnam, and I camp at festivals, and I’m constantly running around small towns trying to find eyelash glue for drag queens. It’s not football, but it’s physically demanding, and I’m well built for it. Making shows is often a physical job, and there are many parallels it turns out between show business and football - they are both ultimately entertainment for the masses.

I’m possibly in better shape now, aged 38, than several of the boys, now men, who were on my school sports teams - although perhaps this is tragic in a new sense, because while they’ve relaxed into fatherhood, snacking on the sofa, I’m still out here wanting to be liked, wanting to be accepted by someone, wanting to be picked, needing to be seen.

But watching The Lionesses has helped me to heal some of these lingering wounds from school days, the PTSD related to my complicated relationship with sport as a youth in the 90s, being ostracised by sporty boys across my teens, and the social rejection that sent me running into the arms of gay men and Sophie Ellis-Bextor and pills. I can enjoy football without worrying that I’m falling in love and am going to go to hell.

Although here’s the other thing, and I’m sure many gay men can relate. I now have Lioness crushes! I catch myself for a micro-second checking the girls out with their silky shorts and strong legs.

Who do I love more… Is it nerveless Chloe Kelly flying down the pitch like an ice puck, scoring penalties with her adorable bewitching foxtrot that surely she should trademark? Or is it the towering, arresting, Michelle Agyemang, smacking the ball into the back of the net like its 3am in Vauxhall, sending the ball soaring over the crowd and over the border of Switzerland, while her face looks like she just popped to the shop for some milk? Who isn’t turned on by Agyemang’s scoring power? My heart quickens too when Alessia Russo gets the ball, how the sun is always shining on her face, and then there’s Hannah Hampton, my lucky little troll warrior. If only she could save me like she can save goals, batting my worst case scenario nightmares and addiction struggles away, drop-kicking my paranoia into another dimension.

I also have a lot of time for Lauren James, the no-nonsense young London Mum, born into a football dynasty with her Chelsea-playing brother - the sporting equivalent of the Skarsgards or something - Look how James keeps control of the ball while speeding past dozens of enemy players!

And I say “enemy” lightly, because I’ve also thoroughly loved watching the Lionesses’ opponents this month.. Who didn’t fall in love a little bit with Spain’s Aitana Bonmati last night, with her devilish conspiratorial smirk? Or how about Italy’s Manuela Giugliano with her breathtaking Catholic expressions that seemed to communicate with a higher order, or defender Elisabetta Oliviero with her knitted mafia brow - don’t mess with her or you’ll wake up in a body bag dumped on a gondola. It sounds silly possibly, but you know when you’re on holiday, and you see some cool lesbians, enjoying the beach a few metres down? You don’t want to stare, but you’re a bit in awe of how cool they are? Women’s Football is like being permitted to stare at those cool divas, and watch them slay. People say there should be women on Drag Race … well here it is bitch, and I’m obsessed. “Lipsync for your life” has nothing on penalties. Alexa play Tension by Kylie!

The queer power of the Lionesses is undeniable, they are gay icons in such a novel and refreshing way, it feels wrong that they haven’t always been platformed like this. How many women at home have realised that they’re a bit lesbian watching The Lionesses play? How many younger gay girls have found role models in this dazzling array of openly gay players? The positive impact of women's football is so colossal that I feel a bit dizzy just beginning to contemplate it. What an achievement. What hope for a fair future. Gay venues have been screening the matches, a queer artist I follow Chris Lloyd posted an illustration of the team on his Instagram, I can’t overstate how novel and moving it is to see a gay scene united by football.

And yet I don’t want to take away from the heterosexual players either. Yes, I was disappointed to learn that Chloe Kelly has a husband who looks like Matt Cardle, but I really love how gay, straight and everyone in between just seems to blend seamlessly in women’s football … together we make the world, united we fucking stand, it makes you look at men’s football and think - “sort your fucking lives out, you’re a mess”

Should it matter if a footballer is gay though? The question that casual homophobes like to chew on when they’re losing an argument. Well… the answer is both Yes and No…

Three years ago, my drag queen agency Rent-a-Queen worked with Charlton Athletic football club on making a video with drag queen stars Kyran Thrax and Mahatma Khandi for “Football Against Homophobia”, a wonderful self-explanatory initiative. The hate we received online was extreme, and not because people have an issue with gay people or drag performers, because most people don’t. But because a few alt-right hate groups, and key tweets by contemptuous figures like Tommy Robinson, orchestrated this big online battle to counteract our work with the club. Charlton Athletic loved us, and they loved the queens. The players and their partners and my performers all got on great. But it’s the fans. Some of them. The fans who form the market that underwrites the entire operation, who are manipulated into quarrelling, by men with ulterior motives. Until that spiky culture goes away, until the truth that some people are gay is globally accepted, it’s important for visibility and for gay rights to prevail.

When someone says “It doesn’t matter if a football player is gay or straight”, they often have good intentions in that small-circuited ‘All Lives Matter’ kind of way, but I think - “That’s great that it no longer matters for you dear,, but sadly that isn’t the case everywhere”. Being gay is still illegal in many territories and complacency on these topics is the cement for death’s bricks. The truth is, the older I get, I realise that only a few people are just straight or just gay. Most of us are somewhere in the middle and society simplifies it, in order to get shit done, and in order to control us. If we’re not careful, gay culture will become as controlling as the thing it is trying to escape.

But to be in a situation where our nation is being led to football victory by a team that includes openly gay players, working in harmony with straight players, and bisexuals and everyone, is a major victory for diversity and inclusion. I am so proud of The Lionesses. And these gay players are healthy gay role models too, and I type this as someone battling with addiction, who is (fingers crossed) on the mend. Keeping fit, working as a team, looking out for each other, mastering a complex physical skillset, hydrating and eating healthily, making some money along the way, travelling the world, and meeting a broad range of people - Wow. In my days the only lesbian role model was Willow from Buffy, addicted to black magic, constantly scheming, and dressed like she ran a cronut van in Bristol. Give me Beth Mead any day!

Finally, I want to thank them for bringing me closer to my Mum in her old age. As your parents get older, things start to fall apart a little and there are many moments when I catch myself feeling frustrated or angry around my family. But the shared passion of supporting The Lionesses has brought me closer to my Mum in a magical way that I never could have predicted at this stage in life.

Sitting side by side in the pub making each other laugh with daft thoughts and observations has been so much fun. Like me, my Mum has a limited knowledge of football, she is newly attracted to the sport by the Lionesses, and our private commentary to each other ranges from trivial to unhinged, “I fought a girl like her at a party once” said Mum of goalkeeper Hannah Hampton “I thought I could take her on but then she pulled my hair really hard. She looks like a cute little girl but she’s feisty that one”

“I feel like Sarina Weigman has loads of IKEA at home?” - “I’m not sure” replied Mum “I bet she has a Samsonite suitcase though, and she unpacks really methodically as soon as she checks into a hotel”

“Do you think Sarina has dogs at home?”

“Hmm. Maybe. Or she could be one of those ladies that breeds ferrets”

“She’s definitely not a cat type”

Mum and I have almost written our own Netflix drama about the imagined life of Sarina and her walk-in wardrobe just for spectacles.

I don’t know if straight men rattle on like this watching the football, but Mum and I have found a way to enjoy football on our own terms, cheering when Sarina smiles, and cooing like doves when Kelly runs onto the pitch.

We both loved booing Montsé Tome, the adorable Trunchball-esque manager of the Spanish team, the perfect UEFA Disney villain, you just know that she collects antique bayonets and keeps them in her Spanish shed.

We both have a hypothetical crush on Kelly - “I’ve taught girls like her before” said my Mum, who’s a retired teacher “They’re tough cookies but you can get a lot out of them, they’re sweet and they get the job done, she’s strong but you can tell she’s a sweet girl deep down”. This is my Mum, nearly 70, crushing out over a female football player in my local sports pub. Amazing scenes. Sometimes Mum will ask me to Google if a player has a wife or a husband and she’ll say “Knew it”.

Now that The Lionesses have given me an in-road into football, I've found I'm intrigued to watch the men’s game more and give it another chance, applying my new findings there. The Lionesses don’t just advertise themselves, but football across the board, and a positive future generally. It’s not my fault that I was a different kid, and it’s not my fault that nature took her time before plastering me with growth spurts, nor were those boys at school wrong to pick on me - it’s only natural I guess. But today feels like a different world. Football is no longer safeguarded, it is for everyone.

I’m excited for tomorrow’s victory parade in London, an unofficial warm-up for Brighton Pride, the first time I’ve been excited about a group of girls on a bus since 1997.

Thank you Lionesses for a great summer, and I’m excited to see you when you play next. Maybe in the meantime I’ll have to pick a local club to support. Michelle… what’s Arsenal saying?