I tried to conform to the gay man stereotype – I'm so glad I gave it up

This week’s storms brought down a tree in my garden. Not just a prissy sapling but a full 15-metre monster that blocked the lane to my village and prevented my next door neighbour passing in his tractor to reach his sheep. For a moment I panicked. I’m a gay man, I’m meant to be glamorous and groomed, not a hair out of place and muscles only for show. Who should I call for help? And what am I doing living down a lane next to a sheep farmer anyway?

A new study conducted by Ashley Brooks, a psychology researcher at Anglia Ruskin University, suggests that gay men feel pressurised to live up to the stereotype of being stylish and witty, with Graham Norton and Rupert Everett as their role models. They are not expected to clear up fallen trees. In fact they are barely expected to go outside at all, especially if it’s raining.

This pressure to conform to a type is something I’ve felt myself. When I was in my twenties the triumph of tolerant and trendy New Labour ushered in an age of highly visible gay culture where style mattered more than substance. As editor of the design magazine Blueprint I tried my best to live up to the image. I bought clothes from Harvey Nichols, had my house made over to be a model of minimalism and went through enough Clinique moisturiser to oil an elephant. I even joined a gym. When I look back at photos from this time I think I look the part - but that’s exactly the problem, I was playing a part and it didn’t make me happy.

My midlife crisis came age 37. In truth I knew I was hopeless at dressing in designer clothes - I always seemed to spill food down them - and my house was a lie, with cupboards stuffed to bursting to keep up the charade. I felt caged-in at work and evenings spent in cool bars and eating at the Ivy had lost their lustre. I just wanted to go outside and get my hands dirty.

So almost overnight I changed my life. I gave up my job and moved to an eco-village in Spain with my boyfriend. The learning curve for off-grid living is steep. Our only source of water was a Moorish irrigation line which regularly got clogged with mud and weeds. Within weeks of moving we found ourselves shimmying on our bellies through rock tunnels to free the flow. With an unreliable water supply we quickly adapted to using a compost toilet and showers became a luxury. I ditched the Clinique. My old clothes soon turned ragged but I carried on wearing them anyway. I learnt to grow vegetables and to climb olive trees at harvest time. I had more time to read and discovered alternative homosexually-inclined role models. Out went Tom Ford and Marc Jacobs and in came swashbuckling adventurers like Gavin Maxwell and TE Lawrence. I felt much happier.

Now I’m living back in England and I no longer feel the pressure to play a part. I’m just a gay man who is more comfortable in Berghaus than Burberry, happier outside than in. So after the brief panic with the fallen tree I knew what to do. I can’t pretend I did it all myself - chainsaw classes are next on my list - but once the sheep farmer had cut up the pieces I enjoyed the heavy lifting. It certainly beats the gym, and reminds me why I’m now glad to be (un-hip) gay.