Will Harris enjoys a night out with ‘the lads’

So, far as the gays are concerned, never was a truer word spoken than the old maxim ‘make love, not war’. Case in point: while the hetero military were creating a satellite tracking system capable of identifying and neutralising targets from thousands of miles away, the gays took the same technology and developed Grindr.

Anyway, since 2001, when the forces first threw open their hangar doors to LGBT servicemen and women, I can’t remember a dinner party that didn’t have at least one light armoured homosexual trading war stories over the pappardelle. It was during one such event that I found myself invited to an auction in aid of gay rights charity Stonewall, held in the WO and NCO’s mess of the Hyde Park Barracks. Of course I accepted immediately. It’s long been an ambition of mine to be in an officer’s mess (stop it!), plus the concept of an alpha gay drinks party in the alpha male surroundings of an army base was just too good to pass up.

“I’d thought it would be macho, aggressive even, but it’s all strangely camp”

In the event, though, I’m surprised to find the setting nowhere near as incongruous as I’d thought: leather everywhere, duty free booze at the bar, not to mention photos of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth staring down regally from every surface. I’d thought it would be macho, aggressive even, but it’s all strangely camp. ‘Our lads’ may not be reading from exactly the same hymnbook as us, I think, but they sure as hell keep the same subscription to Elle Deco.

“Look at those guns,” whispers a journalist friend, as we wait at the bar for our £2 pints. Discreetly, I turn to get a better look.

“Wow,” I breathe. “I think the one above the optics might actually be an AK-47. I’ve never seen one outside of movies.”

“What is wrong with you tonight?” he sniffs. “Not the cases. The Lance Corporal talking to Antony Cotton.”

I look. Even the straight soldiers are like show poodles in their ceremonial garb, plumes bristling, silver breastplates glinting. One of them is wearing a pair of black leather knee-high boots moulded into spikes at the calves that I’m convinced were on the runway at Jean Pierre Braganza last Feb.

“Cheap beer, all male company, fabulous outfits,” I say, as we take our seats for the auction. “Sign me up!”

“Don’t be so ridiculous,” says my friend, thrusting a programme in my direction. “Just pick something to bid on, will you.”

My eyes widen. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, before starting to read out loud. “‘Lot 3. A hamper of the regiment’s own home-made jams and conserves.’”

“I know you’re making that up.”

“I’m not!” I jab my finger at the programme. “Cor. You know that ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ rule? It makes you wonder if anyone’s ever asked.”