A Big Ol' Gay Blow-Up Man

Time for another exciting(?) entry in ye olde blog—namely because I’m in need of another break from academics. This time the focus will be the evening of Monday, 16 April 2012 (through the early morning hours of 17 April).

But I need to back up for a second. You see, two of my modules over here—‘Realism, Fantasy & Utopia’ and ‘Cultural Politics’—have enabled me to meet some really cool people. In fact, the majority of new friendships established since coming to London have been borne of the former.

One of said-friendships is with a lovely young woman named RAS. I was fortunate enough to snag a seat next to her on the first day of class, and during a group exercise that same day we got to chatting after I complimented her on the fabulous silver scorpion ring she was wearing. The rest, as they say, is history. Over time—and through RAS—I have come to form friendships with most of the others who sit in the front row. (And yes, we do represent the stereotypical front row kids—to the point where DS preempts us from answering her questions by automatically saying that she’ll ‘come back to the front row’ after giving others a chance to answer.)

Anyway, I’ve gone off track…

Relatively early in the semester, I was shocked to learn that RAS has never been to a club before. Ever. Not a straight club; not a gay club. She’s over 21 years of age—how the bloody hell does that happen?

So of course, I set about trying to rectify this grave oversight. It took time, to be sure: a constant mixture of guilt over my impending departure, and reassurance that I would protect her like a drag queen protects her tips. 

Eventually—on 16 April—I succeeded!

That night, we met at Village (which is tied with Heaven for my favorite queer London haunt), where drinks were half-priced all night. The only downside was that the level with the dancefloor was closed off, and the DJ I like so much there (Ray Isaac) wasn’t playing. 

At any rate, we were joined by two others from the ‘RF&U’ module—AR and (later) SV—as well as another of RAS’ friends, SB. Thus, the good times (and drinks) began to roll…

Me, AR, RAS, and SB

 The fact that my London drink of choice was only £2 that night, coupled with the other fact that the bartender seemingly thought I was cute and was therefore being generous with the vodka-to-juice ratio, led to a quickly tipsy Brettsy. Fortunately, I was still fairly in control at this point, and so the pix RAS snapped throughout the night aren’t quite as…problematic as they became later in the evening.

Sober Brett

Drunker Brett

 Eventually, both SV and AR had to leave (they had classes the next morning), and soon thereafter Village started closing down for the night. So, the question became: shall we go elsewhere, or head home? Fortunately, her first venue successfully visited sans-drama, RAS agreed to go elsewhere.

We wound up at G-A-Y, which we didn’t stay at for too long—only long enough for one drink apiece, as I recall. But, at least we could dance for a bit…

After G-A-Y, we still weren’t ready to go, and so the decision was made to walk toward Heaven, where I figured we could dance the night right away... Unfortunately, the lesbian doorguard had other plans. Said-doorguard let RAS and me in with no problem, but for some reason she decided that SB was under the influence and therefore could not come in. (For the record, SB was probably the most sober of us all—I think the doorguard was just jealous of her Troll Doll hairband.) At any rate, we were advised to go to the nearby McDonalds, get food, and come back in 20 minutes, at which point we would be allowed in.

So, we headed to McD’s—something I have avoided them like the plague since coming here—and got a quick meal. We sat there for the required 20 minutes, eating and chatting, and (in my case) being repeated punched in the arm by a drunken Frenchman whose friends kept trying to distract him from beating me and apologizing on his behalf.

Upon finishing, we headed back to Heaven…but, again, the doorguard refused SB entrance (and added insult to injury by pretending that she had told SB specifically not to come back). Well, their loss was G-A-Y Late’s gain, ‘cause that’s where we headed next.

This, our last stop of the evening, turned out to be a nice mix of the earlier chilled atmosphere from Village and the dancing opportunity offered by G-A-Y. We wound up staying until they closed, dancing badly—mostly on the elevated platform—to equally bad songs seemingly chosen by a straight man. 

There’s video of all this, but fortunately (and thanks to a few death threats) it will never be seen. (Apparently, when intoxicated to the point I was that night, I lose all arm and wrist bones, and turn into one of those blow-up figures used to sell used cars…a big ol’ queer, purple one! It’s a problem!)

One of the less-problematic photos to come from this night...

Sadly, the time came eventually to depart. I had zero desire to take the bus all the way back to Newham, and so I took SB up on her kind offer to crash at her place along with RAS. For anyone interested in a fun mental picture: just imagine me—fully dressed, because I wasn’t planning on staying out all night—sandwiched between a straight woman and a lesbian in a full-sized bed. It was quite the sight to behold, I’m sure!

And on that interesting note, another entry comes to a close. I suppose now’s as good a time as any to get back to the academic writing that I should be doing right now… 

Ciao!

Morocco: Cobras, Shisha, and Djellabas...oh my!

So, despite explosions and extortive measures, I finally arrived at Hostel Waka Waka on the 8th! The owners, Yaya and Jawad, were both incredibly welcoming. In fact, before being allowed to do anything else—including paying for my room—Yaya insisted that I sit, relax for a bit, and enjoy my hot touareg tea (i.e., a mint tea that is a huge part of Moroccan culture, and which is served to guests as a sign of hospitality). 

My room was on the bottom level, behind the red-stripped curtain.

Looking Upward, toward the rooftop level.

Now, you might be wondering how long I was allowed to relax before paying for my room. I mean, Hostel Waka Waka is still a business after all, right, and surely they want their money? The answer is about an hour—an hour of doing nothing but relaxing, sitting on the couch, and chatting with the other guests as they trickled in.  (In fact, they didn't even ask for their money until much later in the evening!)

I still can’t believe how many amazing people I met at Waka Waka! They were all so inclusive and generous. In fact, I didn’t meet a single person there—or at any point while in Morocco—that I didn’t like immensely. Practically from the start, it was nonstop laughs and fun, and I’m thrilled to say that I’ve since added most of them as Facebook friends so that we can keep in touch. (Yeah, okay, I know how pathetic I am for being so happy about new Facebook friends—no need to rub it in.)

The first of the awesome folks that I met at Waka Waka was NS, a really nice Canadian gent who immediately started including me in the group conversation and plans for walking around the medina later. Mind you, I hadn’t even been assigned a bed yet—but I already had plans for going out.

Thus, a short while later, nine of us set off to explore the medina

Entrance to the souq

Though we didn’t stop (yet), our journey took us through the souq, which is supposedly Morocco’s biggest traditional market. I haven’t seen the hard data to support this claim, but I readily believe it. It was this massive den of chaotic, magical madness! There were so many shops—some no bigger than a wardrobe—jam-packed with wares that the merchants were trying to sell to any- and everyone!

But I’ll say more about the souq later, because for now I want to turn my attention toward the main square:

Djamaa el-Fna is (again, supposedly) one of Africa’s busiest squares. Now, as loathed as I am to include Wikipedia for purposes beyond the occasional unimportant referent, I will say that the following description is pretty accurate in terms of what I saw at Djamaa el-Fna:

During the day it is predominantly occupied by orange juice stalls, youths with chained Barbary apes, water sellers in colourful costumes with traditional leather water-bags and brass cups, and snake charmers who will pose for photographs for tourists.

As the day progresses, the entertainment on offer changes: the snake charmers depart, and late in the day the square becomes more crowded, with Chleuh dancing-boys (it would be against custom for girls to provide such entertainment), story-tellers (telling their tales in Berber or Arabic, to an audience of appreciative locals), magicians, and peddlers of traditional medicines. As darkness falls, the square fills with dozens of food-stalls as the number of people on the square peaks.~ Wikipedia Entry

The Waka Waka crew (which later evolved into the djellaba crew for reasons that I’ll go into later) made its way to one of the orange juice stalls, where I think I got swindled by the vendor—fortunately, this time it was only out of 10DH / 1€. Regardless, it was a damn fine glass of orange juice, being somehow thicker and creamier than the overly processed junk I’m used to in the US (and also possessive of a darker-reddish color).

A short while later, but still while in the square, my new friend ‘Papu’ (JJWR) was surprised to find a monkey on his shoulder. Yes, you read the right: a monkey. A medium-sized, golden-furred Barbary macaque…which was, sadly, kept on a chain by its handler, and did not look happy. Nonetheless, picture taking ensued, and soon enough the monkey was perched on my own shoulder…with his grubby little hand reaching into my coat pocket in an effort to steal my cigarettes.

Cheeky Little Monkey!

Though I do not condone the way this poor creature was treated by its handler, I probably would have regretted not getting a photo later, and that’s my pathetic excuse participating in this moment.

And that wasn’t my only photo-op from that first afternoon in Djamaa el-Fna, though the next one was far more expensive. 

Now, let me preface this bit of the story by simply saying that people are generally surprised—and a bit horrified—to learn that I am far less afraid of snakes than I am of rodents. In fact, I kind of like the appendageless li’l guys. Furthermore, I’ve always been particularly intrigued by cobras. 

So, upon encountering the snake charmers a short while later, it took less than a second for me to request a photo with one of the cobras. The charmer obligingly placed it around my neck!

Papu and I with our slithery new friends!

Post-photos, the snake charmer started demanding 300DH (at least it was less than the 400DH they demanded Papu pay). I talked him down to 100DH (or was it 200DH? I forget). It was still far more than I wanted to pay, but I reconciled this by saying that it was another once-in-a-lifetime thing. What I hadn’t reckoned on, however, was that the guy I paid would then use that amount to help his colleagues extract an equal amount from NS, who had (until that point) been doing a better job of haggling. Whoops.

Following our time in the Djamaa el-Fna, a group of us ventured back to the souq for some exploration. Aside form being tempted to buy a plate of sheep’s brains and face (no lie), and being told that we should all ‘stick [our] fingers up our asses’ for refusing a young man’s navigational services near the tannery, there’s actually not too much that I can report. As I mentioned earlier, the souq is both massive and chaotic—so much so, that it’s hard to actually talk about. 

One thing I definitely do want to mention, though, is how determined the sellers were—it was insane! It turns out I had nothing to fear from the language barrier, because these guys could suss out where you were from in seconds, and they would tailor their spiel to your nationality and language without blinking an eye. 

English? No worries.

Japanese? C’mon a’my house!

Spanish? Holla and ¡Hola)!

 

Furthermore, the vendors would actually remember you and any promises you may have made. For instance, if you promised them that you would come back later to check out their carpets or whatnot, and you didn’t, these vendors would spot you across a crowded road days later and remind you of said-promise. In fact, on my last day in Marrakech I went around with another of my new friends, JE, who informed me that she had made so many false promises that she couldn’t return to certain roads within the souq because they were all looking for her!

Though overwhelming, it really was quite fun. I only wish that I had taken more photos of it—but I simply spent too much time actively avoiding the donkey-carts and motorbikes that were whizzing along the narrow streets.

Following our trip to the souq it was back to Waka Waka for some relaxation. A group of us made our way up to the rooftop deck, and out came the shisha and we toked… I mean talked for what felt like hours afterwards. It was during this shennaniganery that I also enjoyed some really nice apple-flavored tobacco. I’d never had flavored tobacco before (other than menthol, I guess?), but I quite liked it.

[Photo Courtesy of Papu]

 Later that night, part of our group hopped in a cab and travelled about 15km to the nearest liquor store, while the rest of us—munchified and unable to wait for our friends—returned to Djamaa el-Fna and visited one of the many stalls for dinner.

Djamaa el-Fna as night falls

The stall we wound up at was pretty full, and so we were crammed into an area behind the serving and preparing area, right next to the grill. That was kind of fun and interesting…except for the constant grill-smoke wafting into our faces. (Mind you, it did enable me to watch my chicken kebobs being made!) Also, when it came time to pay for the meal things got a bit complicated because the waiter didn’t carry change. In the end, we got it all sorted out though, and even posed for some photos with the staff.

L to R: Cook, Me, Server, AH, Cook. [Photo courtesy of AH]

Satiated, we headed back to Waka Waka, where we met-up with the others…two of whom—KD and Papu—were wearing their recently-purchased djellabas (which were of ‘the finest quality’). Thus was the group’s obsession with djellabas born—by the end of the trip, almost everyone had one. (I, sadly, did not buy one—but only because time ran out and I never got around to it. I really regret not doing so.)

The ensuing hours passed in a blur…or, at the least, I can’t quite recall most of it. This photo may give you an indication of why:

Too Much Absinthe Makes the Brettsy Go Blind [Photo Courtesy of Papu]

It was after 3:30 AM when I finally decided to go to bed—and I had a wake-up call at 6 AM for my trip to the Sahara. But more on that in the next entry…

"Is it Drunk, Ye Are?"

[Yes, that title's a reference to Darby O'Gill and the Little People. It's still practically St Patricks' Day, so bite me if you disapprove of my obscure 'Irish' references.]

I have definitely been paying homage to my Irish roots this weekend, and I know my liver will be quite happy to return to a state of normality over the next few days. But, an awesome time was had throughout, and I was able to engage in some much-needed catching up with friends…

Friday (16 March) found me meeting up with my friend EN—the other student from Columbia who’s attending UEL—for a late dinner. And I mean late! Initially we had difficulty finding anyplace that was still serving dinner because it was after 10 PM. Finally, on the verge of absolute starvation, we stumbled into a place called Maxwell’s in Covent Garden...what we didn’t catch was the blub about it being the “best American restaurant in London.”

Seriously.

After we caught on—somewhere between seeing the large portrait of ‘Aunt Jemima’ that loomed over my shoulder, and the giant, golden Presidential Seal that was visible over EN’s shoulder—I was forced to ask her why it was that we kept winding up in American cafes? (You may remember from this post that the first time we toured around London together we also wound up in such a setting—quite by accident, I assure you!) We never did come up with an answer.

You can actually catch a glimpse of the 'Aunt Jemima' poster on their website! *SMDH*

At any rate, the food was both okay and reasonably priced. Sadly, the waiter sucked—he was so busy schmoozing with the table behind us about his time in Italy that it took almost 20 minutes (I was timing it) to get his attention so that we could request the check. In the end, we didn’t leave Maxwell’s until about 12:15 AM. That’s right: A.M. Suffice to say, I won’t be rushing back to dine there anytime soon.

Freed from Maxwell’s, we headed to Soho—turns out EN had never been to a gay club before, and I was determined to rectify this grave oversight in funness. (Yeah, I know that's not a real word.) Though EN and I had wristbands to get into G-A-Y Bar from earlier in the night, they were already closed, and so we headed to Village instead. We had enough time for exactly one drink, accompanied by a bartop performance of Aretha Franklin’s ‘Think’ (the 'Blues Brothers' version, one of my favorite songs) as rendered by a queen and some scantily clad men, before Village too shut down. Le sigh. A bit disgusted, we called it a night.

Whereas Friday wound up being an early night (relatively speaking), last night was anything but…but I’ll get to that in a moment.

First things first: my Saturday night started off with a trip to Leicester Square Theatre in order to catch the divine (and problematic) Joan Collins in her one-woman show ‘One Night with Joan.’

Two Sexy Bitches?

It was everything I expected it to be, and more! 

Basically, the gist is that you have an auditorium filled with middle-aged gay men who are hootin’ and hollerin’ as Collins sits back and tells them (us) about her sordid life—everything form her childhood, to first-husband Maxwell Reed’s attempt at selling her to “an Arab sheik for £10,000”, to Marilyn Monroe’s advice about the Casting Couch. In all, no big shocks there, and pretty much what you would expect from such a performance.

But it really was funny in that uber-campy way! Her stories about run-ins with the likes of Joan Crawford (her namesake) and Bette Davis were riotous, and she never once hesitated to make fun of her own acting abilities and/or the roles that she's accepted during her career! (And yes, she did make a dig at Linda Evans/Krystle, and joked about the shoulder pads being so large that the women had to enter rooms sideways.) There were so many names dropped during the show that I was tripping over them as I left. Also, putting her ‘bitch’ reputation on display for the audience, Ms. Collins started heckling a drunken guy in the audience during the second act for the way he laughed—that's right, she heckled an audience member. Fortunately he didn’t seem to mind. 

And how could I talk about the actress behind Alexis Morell-Carrington-Colby-Dexter-Rowan-Colby without addressing her ensemble? Ms. Collins spent the first act in a heavily sequined, black, off-the-shoulders number that was highly reminiscent of the Catwoman costumes from the Adam West era. (NB: This is different from the costume seen in the video and picture above.) And then, for the second act, she switched into a white-and-gold gown that could have come from the Dynasty costume department. Awesome!

As for the theatre itself, it was super-small! My ticket—though it was billed as being off to the side and near the back—was practically in the center and only twelve rows back, owing to the size of the place. I could see everything perfectly, including the little puff of smoke (vapor) coming from Ms. Collins’ cigarette. Also related to the performance space, I have to give major props to the Leicester Square Theatre staff for getting in on the fun: the announcer's voice at the beginning—the one that tells the younger people to silence their cell phones and the older people to unwrap their Wearther’s Candies—concluded with, “[If we catch you taking pictures] our staff has been trained to go the 'full Alexis' on you!” HA!

In the midst of my night with Joan I received a text from TvH asking me if I wanted to “drink like the Irish do?” For some reason, at the time this struck me as a challenge to my Irishness by my German friend, so I replied that I would meet him and his friends at Village following the show. Thus began my St Patricks’ Day shenanigans in earnest…

In total, the seven of us went from Village, to another place with overpriced drinks that we never caught the name of (and which  might have been a club for straights), back to Village, to G-A-Y Late (circa 1:00 AM), and, finally, Heaven (around 3:00 AM). By the time I left Heaven and made it to my bus, the sun was coming up.

Shockingly, I got up before noon and didn’t really feel any negative side-effects. Mind you, I also didn’t try to do anything mentally or physically challenging, opting instead to spend most of the day in bed, watching old episodes of ‘Come Dine with Me.’

Then, a little before 5 PM, I made my way back down to central London for the third time in as many days, this time to meet K&M at a pub called The George. The pub’s roots date back to (at least) the mid-16th-Century, and it has been connected to Shakespeare, Dickens, and even Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales. Of course, I simply had to celebrate the history surrounding The George with a couple of Guinnesses (Guinni?)—it would have been rude of me not to. In all seriousness, though, it was great to finally have a chance to catch-up with K&M—they’re such wonderful people, and have been so kind to this lonely American abroad in so many ways.

The George [NB: This is not my photo!]

So, yeah: crazy-long weekend, but one filled with good times and great friends! 

‘You'll Have a Gay Ol’ Time...’

It’s taking me a bit longer to blog about my Paris experience than I thought it would and, in the meantime, I don’t want to miss out on referencing things that are happening in the here and now. To that end, I’m going to set aside Paris for just a moment, and tell you about the start of my weekend…

But first, a bit of set-up: my sleeping habits are totally out of whack, and have been for the duration of my time in London (even before I moved in to Club Lithuanian Frat Guys—who, by the way, I’m more convinced than ever might actually work for the bratva because none of them ever seem go to work of any kind!). Most nights, I am unable to fall asleep before about 2:00 AM.

What’s worse, is that for the last two weeks in a row, I have not been able to fall asleep on Wednesday nights at all! The first time this happened, I assumed it was because of the pounding music coming from Olik’s room, and that I was wound-up following a midnight confrontation with him about it. (I hate conflict, you see, and it makes me feel incredible anxious before/during /after.) But then, again this week, this whole lack-of-sleep on Wednesday night happened, and I’m not sure why.

_____

(Mostly) Unrelated Segue

I’m sorry, I need to interrupt the flow of this entry for a moment. I just went downstairs to check on my laundry while in the midst of composing this entry, and ran into Olik, who is completely pissed (in the British, drunken sense).

He cornered me in the hallway, put his arm around me—which, by the way, is the size of a small tree trunk—and asked if I was bothered by the music he’s blaring at this moment. Not wanting to get into it with him again, I said that it was fine because I wasn’t doing homework, but that if I started later I might ask him to turn it down. 

At that point he nodded his head and smiled and said, ‘You’re a good person—I like you. You’re like family now.’ 

Good Lord, does this mean that I’m now part of the bratva, too? I swear, if anyone tries to kiss me on the cheek while I’m staying here, I will be getting right-the-fuck-out!

End Segue

_____

Back to the Wednesday sleeplessness issue, the reason this is problematic is that my school week begins early on Thursday morning, meaning that said-lack-of-sleep makes me feel like I’m in a fog for the next two days’ worth of classes (because, as most people know, the second day is almost worst than the first). Then, by the time Friday afternoon rolls around—and I’m finished with my classes for the week—I’m exhausted, jumpy, and feeling overall weird.

So, now that you have this understanding of my mental-, emotional-, and physical-states in mind, we can proceed to Friday (24 February)…

When I got home on Friday afternoon (circa 2:00 PM), my upstairs flatmates were already going full-force with their music and drinking. Mind you, all I wanted to do was sleep for a bit. But, that wasn’t going to happen—even after asking them to turn it down, they didn’t. This just added to my agitation. 

In short, my only option was to get out of the flat before I put my fists through a wall. That’s when I ultimately decided to accept my friend TvH’s offer to go out with him and his friends to Soho that night.

A facefull of Purple Steel before goin' out...

Fast-forward to 10:30 PM, and I was making my way from the Tottenham Court Road tube stop toward The Edge. Now, although The Edge consists of multiple stories, we never left the ground floor. This is mostly for three reasons: 

(1) TvH, L. (his boyfriend), and I were waiting for the rest of the group to show up;

(2) the bar—complete with hot, shirtless bartenders—was within easy reach; and,

(3) there were hot go-go boys dancing on the stage (which is tucked back behind the disco ball seen in the upper-right of the photo below).

The Edge, ground floor. (NB: This is not my photo!)

Owing to some stereotypical gay drama, the last two members of our group didn’t arrive until around 1:30 AM. But that was okay, because the music was good (I was shocked by how much ‘new’ music I actually recognized), and the remix the DJ played of Adele’s ‘Rolling in the Deep’ was amazaballs!

Eventually, four hours after arriving, the group decided that it was time to check out someplace else. So, en masse, we made our way into the gaybourhood streets. After a stumbling stroll, we finally arrived at G-A-Y Late.

Now, unfortunately, after standing in line for about 15 minutes, the bouncer allowed four of us to enter but arbitrarily blocked the fifth, saying he was too drunk. Mind you, we were all at the same level of sobriety—in fairness, we should all have been blocked.

Well, not to be thwarted, we once again staggered into the streets (pausing briefly at one of those port-a-urinals—using that was a bizarre experience to be sure, but better than being caught on CCTV doing something you shouldn’t, I guess!)

NB: This is not my photo, nor is it the one I used. Just for the record.

Next stop: Ku Bar. My recollection of Ku Bar basically consists of another hot, shirtless bartender with pecs like boulders and nipples like diamonds, a bit of dancing—which, I’m sure to the non-drunkards in the room looked something along the lines of the Elaine Benes dance—and a marine layer of that artificial club-fog that smells like a cross between artificial sweetener, armpits, and ball-sweat. But, there must have been a bit more to it than just those three things, because I also have a distinct recollection of feeling like it was reminiscent of my once-favorite stomping ground, Velvet Nation.

Finally, at around 3:30 AM, it was time to head home…

Except, I was a bit turned around, as were TvH and L. As an acquaintance of mine of Facebook just wrote about his similar experience this weekend, ‘after 3 hours of traveling back and forth like a homecoming hooker’s walk of shame, we said fuck it and tried to hail a cab. Tried. None of those bitches would pick us up.’ That pretty much sums up our attempt at leaving.

 

Eventually, after walking in circles—Piccadilly Circus, to be exact—for a bit, we found a bus that would take us to Canning Town station, from whence we could all catch trains to our respective flats. (Of course, this decision also necessitated that we wait until 5:30 AM for the trains to start running again…with all of us dressed for going out, and not necessarily dressed for warmth.)

But, I made it home safely (albeit not until after sunrise), and without being part of a mugging scenario this time. YAY!

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!