A weird one from my search-engine slush-pile “Nigel Slater gay?”
Well, yes, he is. You’d have to have been living in a cave for the last decade or so not to know this – it’s been blindingly obvious in his writing, in the Observer more so than his books, and “revealed” in his autobiography, Toast. And yet, gay though he is, he clearly fancied Nigella Lawson something rotten when they shared a TV series. And why not… You’d have to be dead not to.
But, so what? Why does it matter to people? The only contact most people have with Slater is through his writing – writing of immense charm, incidentally if, at times, a tad precious – and his sexuality, like his religion or his preference in socks, is entirely irrelevant. It’s also no-one else’s business, and I’m only writing this because it’s already in the public domain. I certainly wouldn’t out him.
Mind you, I had a run-in with a psycho commenter who thought it was a mortal insult to accuse me of being gay! No I’m not, babe, I’m straight, with entertaining quirks, and calling me gay fazes me not at all. Like Slater, I’m perfectly comfortable with my sexuality, and school-yard insults are just wasted effort.
Talking of writers who might be gay, though, I always assumed Tim Atkin, the Observer’s wine writer, was gay – then he fooled me by getting married. To a woman – gasp! Just goes to show – you can’t judge by appearances.