The first time I went on the BBC’s Question Time, in February 2012, I wanted to make a decent impression. The fact that I looked like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone wouldn’t play in my favour – on my Twitter feed, people regularly queried whether I was taking time off from my paper round when I appeared on TV. But my then flatmate Liam took pity, and promised to leave out a special, smart-looking shirt.
I found it laid out for me in our flat, and felt much more confident when I put it on. Fashion was not my forte, but at least, I thought, I had made a real effort. There I was in Nottingham, with big political beasts including John Prescott and Ken Clarke on the panel with me and, for a change, I had made a concession to expectations. It went well. Afterwards I called Liam to thank him. “But Owen,” he protested, “you didn’t take the shirt, you took my girlfriend’s blouse.”
It’s fair to say that clothes are not my thing. If you need evidence, here it is: in 2016, GQ magazine named me the ninth-worst-dressed man in Britain – worse than Chris Evans. Growing up closeted near the centre of Stockport, I did everything I could to blend in – a massive dollop of gel, hair combed forward, Kappa tracksuits before graduating to Ben Sherman shirts – then, with a hint of teenage rebellion, I bleached my hair and pierced my eyebrow. I looked like a boyband reject, basically. Unfortunately, when I came out at the age of 20 (originally as bisexual, ruining it for genuine bis by fuelling the whole “bi now gay later” shtick), I was not magically endowed with a set of gay skills such as “being spontaneously sassy” or “having a great wardrobe”. A female friend said to me: “Oh great, now we can go shopping together!” But I hate shopping. I have nightmares about shopping.
For more read the full of article at The Guardian
