Summer is coming, as some song will no doubt go, and apparently this time of year is the period when the male of the species’ thoughts turn to… you-know-what.

We can’t help it; allegedly this is the time of year when we will begin to subconsciously hunt out a willing female to carry our offspring. You must not try to fight it, the more the merrier, the stronger and smellier the better, etc etc. (According to The National Geographic Channel, of course).

However, I doubt very much that the majority of readers of this particular column will be getting excited over the concept of mauling a female who happens to be in season, so what are the homos of homo sapiens thinking of this time of year? After a little research I found out that this is the time of year when the ghastly concept of Mr Gay UK becomes the glittering target for gym bodies everywhere.

This is disappointing on so many levels. Not only does it appear to be a blatant slap in the face to the millions of years of human evolution, it also threatens to send our hard earned gay rights sliding back into the sludge. Forget civil partnerships, equal working conditions and political correctness, this summer all of the most loathsome gay clichés will be stripped bare, squeezed into ill-advised, munchkin-sized swimwear and gawped at until the most attractive figurehead will be voted for based on the size of the sock stuffed down his cut offs and crowned King Of The Gays.

What is equally upsetting is how all of us can laugh heartily at the old clichés.

As a child I remember being horrified by a book that I smuggled out of a public library - inside a pile of gory adult comic books - entitled Homosexuality, with chapter headings such as ‘Why The Gays Like Interior Design’ and ‘Why The Gays Like Flower Arranging.’ Needless to say I was terrified enough to give heterosexuality another bash - so to speak. You may sneer now, but just because the clichés now sell magazines doesn’t make them any less damaging.

What surprised me most is that almost everybody I come into contact with seems to share my cynical view, yet the number of votes that fly through text messaging services and websites for the hottest pound of flesh on display is staggering. It’s clearly obvious that inside even the most bitter, militant gay is a quivering young boy dying to idolise a ripped, brainless image of something they’re meant to aspire to be.

I’ve had the unfortunate experience of being ‘the youngest’ in almost every environment I’ve been in. The classroom, the office or the pub, and I’m now approaching what some stoic queens have called ‘death’: the 22 Year mark. ‘Next stop, 30!’ they cackle into their white wine.

What worries me more than getting old, is getting old in a community that will value me less and less for every year that I add on.

Karl Arbuthnot