Will Harris struggles to control his pie envy

As pork pies go, it is an impressive specimen. Tall, fat, perfectly glazed, festooned with a cornucopia of winter fruit and – as if that weren’t enough – the whole thing surmounted by a miniature pig’s head, painstakingly rendered from hot water crust. I, of course, am furious.

“Shop bought,” I say, surveying the buffet anxiously. “Harrods food hall or something. Has to be. Has to be.”
“Well no, I thought that too,” says M, who is wearing his Ralph Lauren candy-stripe and a conspiratorial air, “but apparently he’s been at it since yesterday. He’s unemployed or something.”

“As one, we turn our heads in silent appraisal of the pig-sculptor”

Neither of us knows him, but this stranger’s pie-making prowess has somehow garnered him a spot at the very centre of the party; M’s party (and therefore, by extension, mine).

“Cute as well,” I sniff. “Of course. Well, I’m sure it must be very grand not having to go to work every morning, knowing you can spend your days unfettered by the shackles of employment and work on your abdominals while surrounded by packets of Jus-Roll”
“Oh my God,” says M, “you can’t have pie envy. It’s too bleak.”
I disregard this statement. There are more pressing matters at hand. Like, for example, the fact that M’s portuguese cleaning lady has set the coconut cupcakes I spent all morning baking right next to the world’s most perfect pork pie. Removing them from its shadow is a matter of urgency.

Where does it come from, I wonder, this competitive streak we gay men have? If it’s not pies, it’s pecs. If it’s not your pecs, it’s your boyfriend’s pecs. And if it’s not your boyfriend’s pecs, it’s your boyfriend’s packet (pay or otherwise).
This is partly the reason I’ve decided to swap gyms. The chain I’ve been using since the summer – although pleasant and well run – is one of those air-conditioned temples to perfection so beloved of body cultists. This means more often than not I’ve found myself struggling through a work-out with a whiskered behemoth either side of me, like a slim volume of comic prose sandwiched between book-ends carved by Tom of Finland.

The presence of all this muscle – rather than inspiring me to push myself harder – somehow had the opposite effect. For all the gains I was making, I couldn’t help but compare my physique to my fellow gym-goers; and as long as their bodies looked superior to mine, my competitive streak felt uncomfortably like a losing streak.

Which, of course, is totally ridiculous. Whoever we are, whatever we look like, there will always be someone stronger than us, faster than us, richer or more confident. There’ll always be a better dish on the table. All we can do is reposition our own offerings, work out what light they look best in, and console ourselves that – however perfect the pork pie – some people will always prefer a coconut cupcake.