In Lawrence of Arabia, Prince Feisal (as played by the ever-commanding Alec Guinness) assesses T.E. Lawrence (as played by the ever-homoerotic Peter O’Toole) as, “…one of those desert loving English.” Sir Guinness says this with a particularly feline like gesture; he raises his right hand to the height of his waist and lets the hand drift from side to side – almost like he’s polishing the head of an enormous, brass penis…let’s say Allah’s penis? Given context and all…
Somehow the gesture, the phrase, and the subject: Mr. Peter O’Toole as the absolutely bizarre Lawrence (to be read: LOW-RONNZ!), seem to imply much more than just some white dude who loves the desert. It seems to imply an entire lifestyle. And, indeed, looking at the bottle blond, heavily highlighted (with the help of Ben Nye cosmetics, duh), extraordinary creature that was Peter O’Toole, Desert Loving English takes on a whole new meaning.
The Desert Loving English, as it has evolved as a term in my own home, has now become synonymous with a certain type of gay man: The Old Guard Gay, if you will. The Cole Porters of the world, the Peter O’Tooles, the Carey Grants…these men who were so clearly gay but also so clearly gorgeous and living at a time when declaring one’s sexuality seemed almost gauche (not to mention dangerous as hell). Why choose one team when you can play both? And why settle for being an uncharismatic brute (or even a charismatic one, see Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando) when you could be a decent hetero lay when push came to shove AND dashing AND a witty drinking buddy?
Tom Ford might single handedly create a renaissance in the Desert Loving English category. He is gorgeous, masculine, feminine, and sharp as a tack. As could, somewhat surprisingly, Richard Branson, the lunatic behind the Virgin brand. While he is a far cry from Old Guard Gay (he’s a bit more Gary Cooper in Fountainhead, let’s be honest), he seems to understand the grace and ease that the Desert Loving English bring to international travel. Case in point: Virgin Australia.
This Christmas I flew Virgin Australia (guess where we went?!) and I was presented with a crew full of Desert Loving English. Gorgeous, flirty men who seem amenable to either gender just as long as you have a sense of humor and a taste for Bombay Sapphire. And the women too, while not Desert Loving English (the term doesn’t really cross over since, who are we kidding, old guard lesbos – e.g. Virgina Woolf and Alice B. Toklas – were not exactly the life of the party), were lovely, vibrant, and helpful to boot. The crew of Richard Branson’s ship with wings made my Christmas voyage a sheer delight. And, while the food was fine, I had picked up my favorite travel treat in the airport so really all I needed was water and alcohol. Before any flight, I make a point of securing a large bottle of water, a valium and…Cadbury Fruit and Nut.
As another kind of Dessert Loving English, I hail from a long line of Cadbury freaks (my gran used to stash Cadbury Flakes in her baking tins and my mom rarely leaves a grocery store without her very own bar of Fruit and Nut). I am distressed by the recent sale of Cadbury to Kraft, to say the least. I fear my lifelong, international treat will soon taste like a Hershey’s bar (akin to a chalkboard eraser, no?). So I’m beginning my collection now. This weekend I can be found creating my own travel stash of pre-Kraft Cadbury that will ensure my next flight on V. Australia is as good as my last.
Long live the Dessert Loving English! AND the Desert Loving English!
