a night on the town

Last Saturday, I had an irrational urge to take a step out of my hermitage and go for drink in a local pub. I’d had an ill starred first date in the Hemingford Arms last year that was commandeered by a fellow drinker – myself and date feeling prevented by compulsive ‘niceness’ to escape. However, I reckoned, if I was to head there alone, I might benefit from the friendliness of the clientele. Arriving at about 8pm, the pub was busy but mainly groups so, after an hour of nursing a pint without conversation, I rashly decided to make a break for the local gay pub just down the road, near Kings X...

Not the wisest of choices as it proved to be practically deserted, reminding me that I had made this kind of mistake before – gay pubs in London tend to be very quiet on Bank Holiday weekends, at least at around 9pm. A further pint was duly nursed there and I did actually manage a short chat with someone who worked there, slightly surprised to hear him, after introducing himself, add that he was also known as Sue. Whilst, generally, my dislike of modern gay bars reinforces my reclusiveness, any nostalgia for days gone by doesn’t include the fondness for gay men to adopt so called ‘camp names’ though I did appreciate the albeit brief friendly conversation. Having endured almost an hour of otherwise solitary supping and deciding that the downstairs Masters & Slaves event was unappealing, I paused for a cigarette outside before escaping home. Standing there with a handful of other smokers, I noticed a trio of ‘lads’ walk past before they paused conspiratorially just around the corner, then running past & chucking a bottle of water (or perhaps something recently excreted) in our direction. Fortunately it hit a parked van in front of the van rather than anyone standing nearby and I found myself wondering about the mentality of someone who finds such a ‘courageous’ act necessary to bolster their machismo.

Heading back home by bus, mind undoubtedly addled, having consumed two pints of lager (such uncharacteristic ‘binge drinking’), with further rashness, I decided to visit my nearest local – quite a ‘basic’ pub. For my delectation there was a noisy wedding reception in progress. A third pint was duly nursed as I lapped up such delights as a couple of intoxicated women danced on the bar, precariously, to such classics as ‘YMCA’ and ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon’.

Finally, filled to the brim with an evening of such exotic delights, it was time to head home – thankfully 5 minutes away. Quite surprised not to be bogged down dwelling on the fact that the evening had not really delivered what I had hoped for – very little social intercourse (let alone any other variety) – I arrived back with a wry smile on my face... but also a resolve not to repeat such a folly, at least not until I’d forgotten how ghastly it all was – perhaps in a year or two.