Ben Oxley

RUNNER UP

The Beauty of Camp

Recently, I have redownloaded Hinge. It is a somewhat sinister, yet perpetual cycle. The initial belief that I will find the love of my life quickly transcends into repulsion at the state of men who are, unsurprisingly, left for me to choose from. So, just like I do at TKMaxx with the candles, I have a good root around, give a few a try, and then walk out leaving empty handed. During this latest pursuit of courtship, following five months of celibacy and an attempt to reconnect with nature, I was struck by the overwhelming, growing distaste for camp men: camp is not beautiful. It seems that during my period of swipe sobriety, the gay dating scene has become increasingly enamoured by traditional representations of masculinity, aiding a concealment of sexual orientation. 

Unfortunately, for some, the concealment of my queerness has never been a process I have felt committed to undertake. One of the earliest memories I have is spending Christmas performing the entirety of The Fame Monster for my family on a barstool in my grandparents' lounge. With the disc spinning inside my new red Early Learning Centre CD player (microphone included!), I swung my head from side to side as I performed a compelling rendition of Paparazzi, as if I was duetting with Mother Monster herself. 

Should I have been performing Lady Gaga at the age of four? Probably not, but what happened to ambition?

I suppose what I am trying to suggest is that campness brings me great delight, it is joyful, powerful, even. The camp ephemera that exists in me has trickled down from the great drag legends of generations past, and the witty humour of the lost gay language, Polari. It, therefore, brings me a great level of discomfort now that Hinge has become a breeding ground for demoralising a characteristic possessed by individuals who provided us with a chance to love in the first place.

The brilliance of camp comes from its ability to subvert gendered norms. Theoretically speaking, without going into the dense gender theories of Judith Butler, this is the embrace of flamboyant femininity, a cultural cutdown of what it means to be “a man”. So, in practical terms, camp looks like going to Wetherspoons for the small plates, and renaming them picky bits, instead of going for pints of cheap, warm beer. 

Though camp exudes its own warmth, one that equips me with a level of inquisitive chatter and subjective charm: a charm which applies well when working in my local village library, where many an elderly lady frequents. Unlike the boys on Hinge, they are enamoured by my chats about Strictly and EastEnders, and I am equally enamoured by their chats during Knit and Natter club, which I affectionately call Stitch and Bitch. This is likely down to a camp man’s tendency to adore powerful female figures - a Miranda Priestley. And, let it be known, many of the glamorous library ladies would not be seen dead in a cerulean sweater.

I am hesitant to suggest the warmth of camp is equally valued by the football hooligans who come in to print out their tickets. Conversely, in recent weeks, I have been upgraded to “mate status”. Perhaps I am a lad after all, though maybe I am more destined for a WAG lifestyle.

My narrow-eyed weariness towards lads comes from the numerous slurs or spats directed at me from times at school, or from simply moseying about town minding my business, listening to Sisters from White Christmas and imagining myself as one of the Haynes duo. But even in darkness, camp can bring much light. When a Spurs fan once called me “gay boy” for wearing make up, I armoured with my camp tongue to retort “as a Tottenham fan, surely you’re used to being on the bottom”. I learnt two things very quickly in this encounter: having a Liverpool fan for a sister can be extremely useful, and that straight men do not appreciate the quiet luxury of the Charlotte Tilbury Peachgasm blush. 

But even in a moment of wretched fear, camp comes through, diffusing out of my skin. These moments should be the times when the hood comes up, and the eyes go down. Yet, I find myself bewitched by a cutting wit, a spell only camp can cast. Camp manifests this existential drive in you. The acceptance of camp is limited, but the bounds of camp are infinite.

I recently ran the London Marathon. Granted, not in under two hours: it actually took me triple that. But the very act of getting to the start line felt defiant enough. Defying the conscription of being chosen last for football in PE, before eventually ending up as the goalkeeper, a role that none of the other boys wished to play. Even in my description, I position it as a character on stage, somewhat echoing my general flouncing about on the goal line and my yelping when a ball was hurtled towards my face. My PE teacher decided it was best for me to become the equipment boy and spend my lessons tidying the cupboard filled with weights, mats, and rackets. 

Unfortunately, going into the PE cupboard is not an option when running the marathon, nor is it ever an option. My campness is not a costume; it is my clothing. It is what I like to wear, it is what I feel comfortable in. It is the item of jewellery that never comes off, the necklace you shower in, or the ring you sleep with. The boys on Hinge are certainly not giving me a ring to sleep with anytime soon, and maybe that is a relief for all parties involved. 

So for now, I will serenade myself, crooning on a bar stool, singing Lady Gaga, longing for some ambient aroma, wishing TKMaxx had some better smelling candles. And there I will sit with the knowledge that camp is indeed beautiful.