I happen to sort-of know this very successful writer.

And not only is this writer very successful, she’s also just very brilliant. In all sorts of ways.

She’s an incredible, electric playwright. She’s also a very cool screenwriter who has countless credits, and who is now developing and creating her own work for screen.

Filmmakers, producers and celebrities are talking about her as if she’s the voice of a generation.

And she probably is. She probably is the voice of mine and her’s generation.

And here’s the thing. She’s actually quite a lovely person.

She’s a delight. She’s funny. She’s forthright. She’s insanely clever. She’s great. She’s completely faultless. She’s just fabulous.

I hear she’s also been in a relationship for the last ten years with a gentleman who’s apparently very handsome, very kind, very supportive, and a right laugh.

All of this is a perfect cocktail for me to consider all the ways in which I could kill myself.

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Now, don’t worry. Luckily enough for all of you, I’m too obsessed with myself to kill myself.

But when I’m not totally into myself, I do fall down the rabbit hole of utter disappointment towards myself, regarding all the ways in which success has been utterly elusive to me.

Because that’s what it keeps coming back to inside of my head.

Success.

Or, the lack thereof.

I am successful. Sometimes. But not quite.

I was rather promising. But maybe I’m not anymore.

I am doing it... the business of being a professional writer, of being an artist…

But I’m not doing it enough.

I’m going somewhere. But I have no idea where.

I’m famous. But I’m not really, am I? Sadly. No. No, I’m not. Not yet.

I’m the undeniable voice of my generation.

Except no one knows it. And no one really cares.

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Sometimes I tell myself that the reason why I haven’t yet embodied the success I yearn for is because I’m going to be huge when I’m older. When I’m in my late thirties. When I’m in my forties. When I’m in my fifties. When I’m a wise, seasoned, older, sophisticated man, I won’t be able to even hop on the Tube. I won’t even be able to pop to M&S to get a pint of milk. I’ll just be mobbed. I won’t even be able to go about my business and enjoy carefree anonymity in Japan. I’ll be so famous that I’ll literally be EVERYWHERE. I’ll be so, so, so Julia.

This daydream comes to a brutal stop when I then consider the very real possibility that I could potentially drop down dead before I’m able to hit this prime that I’ve created inside of my head — and that my life, therefore, might not have been worth it.

Then, I have to remind myself that my life will have been worth it, even if I don’t win a BAFTA.

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Maybe my mind is such a torturous place about all this because not only am I a ruthless, ambitious bitch who will stop at nothing to get what he wants in life — but I’m also (perhaps, not coincidentally) a single gay man.

I have no one to make a home with. I can’t have children in a traditional way. Increasingly, my legacy doesn’t look like passing down my genes to insufferably cute children who look like me — but instead writing down words that I don’t want to be forgotten.

Because isn’t that what this all boils down?

For all of us, in some way.

We’re all just terrified of being forgotten. Aren’t we?

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I’m jealous of all these successful bitches in my industry because the chances of them being forgotten are now increasingly rare. They’re constantly on people’s minds. They’re constantly on the minds of bitter old queens like me.

They have Wikipedia pages. I don’t.

They have publicists based in Los Angeles. I don’t.

They have enormous social media followings. I don’t.

They have the world at their feet. I don’t… not quite yet, I don’t.

I do, on the other hand, have a Substack.

And I am fortunate to have a small window of your time that you’ve graciously given to me, where you just so happen to be reading these words that I’ve cobbled together.

And, I suppose, a part of me yearns, with all my heart,

that whatever happens,

(or whatever doesn’t happen),

hopefully,

just possibly,

you won’t forget me.

Regardless of whether or not I win a BAFTA.

That’s my hope, right now…

I hope you won’t forget me. xxxxxxx

The other month, I attended my friend’s 30th birthday party.

As I took my seat around the table at the drag queen bingo bar, I looked towards the end of the table, and saw what has come to be a rather inevitable sight, now that I am in my thirties. The sight I was greeted with was that of a collective of shiny, glistening, and extremely frozen foreheads.

It was The Botox Gays.

(who will sadly look like the below in a few years’ time, if they’re not careful…)

At first, I thought these Botox Gays were unfriendly. I thought they seemed a little boring. They didn’t seem to be in the party mood. And then I eventually understood that they were having a nice time, and they were in fact rather sweet boys – but they were just completely incapable of registering human emotion on their faces.

These Botox Gays looked pristine. They looked immaculately polished. They looked expensive and valuable. And like most expensive and valuable things, they also looked a little fragile. They looked as if, at any minute, they could break.

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Now, before people start coming for me and getting all defensive, let me start by saying this – I believe that anyone can do whatever the fuck they want with their own bodies and their own faces.

And, like any self-respecting gay man, I am someone who idolises Cher.

I adore Cher.

Quite frankly, Cher means everything to me.

I love her music. I love her work as an actress. “Moonstruck” is one of the best films of all time, and if you haven’t seen it, then you have a problem on your hands that you immediately need to rectify.

Besides her artistry, I also love that Cher has transcended age not just through her spirit, but also through a series of invasive cosmetic procedures. It works for her. And that’s fabulous.

But, what the vast majority of us need to understand is this.

We’re not Cher.

There is only one Cher. And I’m not sure the rest of us are able to transcend age in the way that Cher transcends age.

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I do understand the reasons why women get Botox. First of all, many women simply want to get Botox — and good for them. And secondly, many women are unfortunately made to feel inadequate by the incessant beauty standards that are all around them from the moment they’re sentient. But, why on Earth are men doing this?

MEN.

I’M TALKING TO ALL OF YOU.

MEN — WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?

SPECIFICALLY YOU, BRADLEY COOPER. BRADLEY!!!!!! I USED TO FANCY YOU SO MUCH. NOW LOOK AT YOU. WHAT HAPPENED? Bradley!!!!!!!! Bradley, seriously. Bradley. Seriously, Bradley — listen to me. Bradley, what did you do????

I understand that men encounter other societal pressures to look a certain way – but why are you, as a sexy man, getting Botox?!?! Why are you getting filler?!?! Why are you all trying to chase this rugged, handsome look, whilst also pumping your cheeks with a substance that is only regulated in Turkiye?

When I see a sexy wrinkly-faced fifty-something man wearing a nice cardigan, who possesses a sense of humour and can smile without looking like a circus clown, I want to climb him like a tree.

When I see a beautiful wrinkly-faced seventy-something woman wearing pearls and a black fur coat whilst she’s being shown to her seat in The Ivy Kensington Brasserie, I immediately want to join her at her table and become her deepest confidante.

In my eyes, this type of man and this type of woman are rather beautiful.

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But what’s so wrong with being a little bit ugly, anyway?!

What’s wrong with ageing like a leather handbag like Sean Penn seems to be doing? He seems happy! He seems punk! He kind-of looks like the human embodiment of a cigarette. Good for him!

I know that if a woman in the public eye decided to age like Sean Penn, she’d be labelled a “mess” – but not by me she wouldn’t!!! I would label anyone of any gender who was ageing in this rock’n’roll manner an absolute LEGEND.

I know it’s tempting.

I, myself, have looked into salmon sperm injections.

To be clear, I’m not talking about my ejaculate.

I’m talking about sperm cells from salmon fish that are injected into your forehead, as a means of creating a healthy “glow”.

But, here’s the thing. I’d rather spend my money on teabags, dark chocolate, Vivienne Westwood handbags and holidays with my dear friend Katie.

I’d prefer to not spend my money to feel better about my forehead for a few months, and then feel shit about my forehead again after a few months have passed.

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But, listen. It’s your money. It’s your face. It’s your body. It’s your CHOICE.

But, when you start debating a certain tweakment… or a full-blown facelift… I want you to remember these words that I’m about to tell you…

You are not – and you never will be – the Academy Award winner and ageless icon that is Cher.

And that’s okay.

You may have heard that I recently had a crush.

Let’s call him Peter.

I met up with Peter for the third time for some drinks in Soho. I was looking forward to my evening with Peter, because I was rather taken by him. However, I immediately stopped having a crush on Peter when he told me that he was passionate about juggling.

A mentally stable person (such …

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There are a lot of prospective romantic partners to sift through, out there.

I should know. I’ve dated 15,291 men in the last year alone.

But when the impossible happens, and you actually develop a crush on one of those 15,291 men, it can be hard to know whether or not it’s going to progress in a way that’s actually forthcoming. Fortunately, I have the ul…

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Here is a list of things that I happen to believe are cries for help.

To be clear, these things are never a good idea under any circumstances whatsoever — and are usually indicative of a wider problem that someone is failing to address within themselves.

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1. Cutting out carbohydrates

2. Cutting out sugar

3. Choosing to drink almond milk (what the fuck is wrong with y…

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I don’t wish to be dramatic, but I really thought I was going to die when I went to a speed dating event, against my better judgement.

It’s hard to tell when it happened. Maybe it was two years ago. Maybe it happened last night because I still have sleep paralysis from it.

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This particular gay speed dating event was held in Balham in south London — and was…

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1. If he sends you the 😜 emoji in an unironic fashion.

It's dead in the water. It’s over. He might just turn out to be a serial killer. Immediately block. Do it now. For your own safety.

2. When he tells you that he’s into juggling.

Things have been going well. He loves the leopard print faux fur jacket you’re wearing (obviously – because you’re gorgeous)…

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