I'm On the (Knife's) Edge of Glory!

I’ve been delaying writing this one, ’cause I wasn’t sure how much detail I wanted to go into. But, Nic has effectively blackmailed me into telling all, so here goes…

Well, not quite yet…

First, let me just say that nothing’s wrong, so there’s no need to worry. However, I have a certain…saintly image of myself that I want my wonderful parents to maintain. So, before I delve into the details of Monday night’s tale of drunken debauchery, I will ask that—if either of them are reading this—they just move their mouse over to the little colored ‘X’ in the upper-corner and click on it.

I’ll wait…

Still waiting…

This means you, Dad—bye!

Okay, I think the coast is clear now. 

Now, the rest of you have to swear to secrecy that you won't going runnin’ at the mouth with what you read here—there's no reason for them to become worried unnecessarily!

Let’s begin, shall we?

So, last week I was chatting with TvH—one of my peers in the Realism, Fantasy, and Utopia module—about my experience so far as an international student at UEL. You see, TvH is also an international student, although he’s actually studying at UEL for the full three years, and is half-way through his second year. 

Anyway, the topic of the conversation eventually turned to gay things, as it tends to do when two gay men are chatting. I was saying that I had been disappointed by UEL’s GLBT(-but no Q) group—like I said in an earlier post, I had hoped to find a ready-made circle of friends but, alas, such was not the case—and then I mentioned that I was too chicken to check out London’s gaybourhood by myself. Flash-forward a few days, and TvH was kind enough to invite me to go out with him, his partner, and a friend or two on Monday night.

So, off I went for my first adventure within that mysterious realm that is London’s chiseled, apple-tinied gay underworld…

As I learned upon arriving—by bus, of all nonfabulous things—at Tottenham Court Road, the rather nasty weather, coupled with the fact that it was a Monday night, had caused the rest of the group to bail at the last minute. 

Nonetheless undeterred, TvH and I set off for the first bar:

The Friendly Society is a tucked-away bar near the corner of Wardour Street and Old Compton Street. To enter, you have to descend a somewhat dark, quiet stairwell—seriously, you can’t see any of the lights from the club, nor can you really hear the music (contrary to what the older photo below shows). 

But once you’re within the bar proper, it’s like you’ve stepped into a strange, undersea kingdom…

The Entrance [NB: This photo is not mine!]

The Bar [NB: This photo is not mine!]

You can't tell from most of the photos above, but, most of the lighting is a pale blue, like the kind seen in the Faerie Tale Theatre version of ‘The LittleMermaid’—seriously, I kept waiting for Brian Dennehy or Helen Mirren to pop-out…or at the very least, Shelley Duvall! Adding to the ambiance are round, old-fashioned goldfish bowls (complete with fish), a room filled with tiny disco-balls hanging from the ceiling, and dozens of Barbie and Troll Dolls that give the appearance of ‘swimming’ across the ceiling courtesy of screws through their guts.

Notice the dolls on the ceiling [NB: This photo is not mine!]

More Swimmers [NB: This photo is not mine!]

Oh, and have I mentioned the projector? Into one of the alcoves behind the bench-lined white walls, a projector beamed the (in)famous shark-attack scene from the 1966 ‘Batman’ movie—the one with Adam West and the entire rogue’s gallery (minus either of the legitimate Catwomen)—over and onto patrons’ heads. 

The Movie Screen [NB: This photo is not mine!]

As for the music, a solitary speaker was pumping out the sounds of the Eurythmics in one of the siderooms.

It was in this delightfully kitschy environment that I had the first of many, many drinks over the course of the night... And the second. (Red wines, both.)

Wanting to pace myself, I suggested we check out one of the other nearby locations.

Moments later, we were at Village, which is somewhat reminiscent of Spin.

Now, regrettably, this is where the memory starts to get a bit hazy…

You see, no one in London seems to have heard of my usual, safe drink of choice (Fuzzy Navels), and I didn’t want more anymore wine because it would have had me asleep within moments. So, somewhat reluctantly I switched to my other standby: cranberry-vodka. 

Five of 'em…

That I can recall.

And then I remember TvH and I chatting for (what felt like) 20 minutes with this woman who kept going on-and-on about her hair, and how she hadn’t cut it (‘except the fringe’) in about 15 years… But, I kept giggling because I thought she looked like the late Wendy Richard.

I swear, the woman looked just like this!

Eventually, TvH said he needed a smoke, so we were finally able to escape the chatty Miss Brahms look-alike—and her drunken GBF, who kept asking me to hold his drink and then disappearing, only to re-appear later with a brand new drink…

Then it was back to the bar (or possibly a third one—I have a ‘mystery wristband’ from another bar called Shadow Lounge that may or may not be owned by the same folks who own Village, and that I don't remember getting) for a shot or two of tequila.

Okay, so let me clarify something here and now: none of this talk of drunkenness is meant to sound like bragging. I mean, I had a fun time (until the next day)—but that’s not the main reason I’m telling you all this. 

All of this is just set-up for this part of the story:

After the shots, we both decided we’d had enough and that it was time to go (our separate ways—I want to make that explicitly clear now, ’cause that’s not where this story is going!). 

We started walking toward Oxford Street, from where we could each catch our respective buses. All of the sudden, this guy appears out of nowhere and drapes his arm around TvH’s shoulder, and asks, ‘Are you guys looking for such-and-such-bar?’

Now, at first I thought that TvH knew this strange guy because, while he didn’t stop walking, he also didn’t jerk away suddenly. I realized I was wrong when TvH answered ‘No,’ and I noted the change in the tone of his voice—I think he was just in shock that this guy was touching him.

 The guy persisted for a few more seconds, and by that point we were both telling him ‘No’ and other dismissary comments. But he continued following…

That’s when TvH came to a sudden halt and said with surprise, ‘He just grabbed my wallet!’

Obviously, this comment brought me to a stop, too. 

We just stood there, staring at the guy…

Oh, and he was now holding a Swiss Army-type knife in his hand.

No lie.

No exaggeration.

We were being mugged!

TvH and I backed away, holding our hands up in a non-confrontational way, and when the mugger’s attention was back on TvH, I started mouthing at some nearby bystanders to ‘Call the cops!’

As far as I could tell at the time, they were too absorbed in the spectacle to actually, you know, help us—but, I think the guy started realizing how many witnesses were around and watching us, and so he took off, taking TvH’s wallet and passport with him.

TvH called the police immediately, and—to the credit of London’s finest—they were there within five minutes, if that long. 

Then came the embarrassing ordeal of having to give a police report and description while being both shaken-up and heavily intoxicated. I mean, seriously: imagine having to give a police report and description under such circumstances. Ridiculous!

Flash-forward to today, when I saw TvH at school and got an update: first and foremost, he ‘lucked out’ in that the mugging happened in an area where there are a few CCTV cameras around (now we just have to hope they’re working!). Also, apparently the thief was stupid enough to try and use one of his credit cards somewhere in East London, so there’s a chance that got caught on film there too.

All-in-all, that last bit was quite the experience—and not one that I ever care to repeat again. 

Now, as for the London club scene: I think next time I’ll just bring the bartender a copy of the Fuzzy Navel recipe and play it safe!