John Lyttle column

Michael Barrymore's letting the side down, and after such a splendid start: throwing his wedding band into the crowd at the White Swan to the anthemic strains of `New York, New York'. I quote: `Start spreading the news, tell everyone I'm gay'

Like skinning the proverbial cat, there's more than one way to Come Out. Actually, there are (spoilt for choice) two ways. There's the right way - the role model way - and there's the way we mustn't mention. The wrong way, the way that, oh dear, reflects badly on the here-and-queer everywhere. The right way is, of course, the route Labour MP Angela Eagle recently took: "Coming Out", she hopes, means she will be under less strain and can now just concentrate on getting on with the job she loves. "Now I am at the stage where I need to get things sorted ..."

Which shows not merely an obvious dignity, but also how easy it is to pour one's self unconsciously into a pre-approved grand narrative. Well, everyone's got one. Even heterosexuals. There's the anointed substance and meaning of Marriage and Family, except Marriage and Family - concentrate, please - is a statement so all-pervasive as not to appear even faintly ideological, while Coming Out proves that the personal is not only (yawn) political, but helplessly, hopelessly, propaganda, too.

Which makes Coming Out the sugar-coated iceberg of public declarations. Nine-tenths of the announcement lurk below the surface. And what rises above the water line might be said to pander to yet another form of prejudice, albeit avowedly liberal and awfully polite.

Thus the new, improved Coming Out focuses on how supportive our families have been and not on how Mom and Dad screamed not to darken their doorstep again. We wax lyrical about our invariably long-term partner - we've known them all of three days - and downplay the 1,001 relationships ruined through shame and secrecy. We prat on about our higher state of consciousness and neglect past erratic behaviour - possibly drunken binges and perhaps even drugs; whatever steadied our raw nerves for that final big step. For casual nobility is the current keynote of Coming Out. Indeed, you're being brave, but, no, you're not being - radical. In fact, how does it go? It goes so: your sexuality is one of the least important aspects of who you are.

Mustn't heap guilt: not on those straights who would call themselves sympathetic, or could be persuaded to be. Mustn't whine: that might seem weak. Most important: mustn't ever, ever appear a mad or angry mess. Wear your best make-up.

In short, the act of Coming Out must present itself not as a phase you career through but as unquestioned destination, solution and de facto tale of success. Whether they like it or not, and no matter that Coming Out is an ongoing and essentially private psychological process, Chris Smith, Stephen Twigg, Ben Bradshaw must be portrayed as somehow magically complete, as grinning pin-ups for mental health. And never mind that many individuals - whisper it if you dare! - are perfectly content inside the closet. They may be at perfect peace with their own consciences but there are those lofty minds who think these decisions are far too important to be left in such selfish hands. Outrage! has The Cause and the tabloids have Circulation and each believes, in its own hard, twinned heart, that bullying Rabbi Lionel Blue to spill his guts was no more than right and proper. We must be prepared to sacrifice - and the sacrifices had best be prepared, also.

Luckily Lionel Blue was prepared; a man who knew (most things) about himself. And then there's Michael Barrymore. Michael Barrymore weaving, stumbling and staggering across the dance floor of my local gay disco three weeks ago. There the TV comic swayed, swigging a can of Stella, a sight too grabby in his clumsy cruising, sniffing from a bottle of poppers, a man barely aware of his surroundings, and, worse, a man barely aware that since the sacred rite of Coming Out he is no longer permitted to be the Judy Garland du jour. Every doubt is meant to have gone somewhere over the rainbow. Yet Michael will insist on flying back to the ball and chain - if only to leave her again - except, unfortunately, closets with revolving doors aren't an officially recognised design, particularly when the door sticks. Besides, boo hoo, he's letting the side down, and after such a splendid start: Michael throwing his wedding band into the crowd at the White Swan to the anthemic strains of "New York, New York". I quote: "Start spreading the news, tell everyone I'm gay ..."

A splendid start and a major hint that taking (the) Michael might be no minor task. But whether Coming Out or Falling Apart, we're primed to think that the performer's sexuality is the problem, and, frankly, who knows if it is? Perhaps it's his tortured childhood. Perhaps it's poor scripts. Perhaps it's those suits. Though try imparting these dull alternatives to the boys cutting a rug and cutting Barrymore dead on the dance floor three weeks ago; the contemptuous pack instinctively backing off from what it presumes to be an injured animal, when all the poor sod might be doing is Coming Out at his own pace - and to his own rules.

Could be that Barrymore isn't a loser. Maybe he simply isn't linear, ready, steady ... huh, stop. Rewind. Let's have a retake. All the traumas that are meant to be resolved in the shadows so that Coming Out can flaunt itself as a fait accompli, Barrymore has been obliged to deal with in the limelight. He's merely enacting a celebrity version of what every homosexual goes through, but does this earn the man empathy or provoke scorn? Hazard an educated guess. The creed of Coming Out imagined it had got itself a poster boy and bridles at being saddled with The Picture of Dorian Gray. Trust me - you can't have the one without the other, no matter in which order they appear. That's life. But life, alas for Barrymore, and alas for us, is an ambiguity propaganda can't allow.