On Friday after work I go to the gym and then maybe I should be going to some house party, but I’ve been out on Wednesday night (Hercules & Love Affair) and Thursday night (Simon’s house) and this is getting way too much, I need to be on my own for a while so I just go home.
Then at 2300 I get a little bored so decide to quickly get dressed, take the iPod and get on the tube, go around on my own for a bit listening to music and watching the people going home from their nights out.
And during this tube journey I listen to Cemetry Gates by The Smiths, followed by A Cause De Garcons by Yelle quite a few times, and then the tube is nearly closed so I head back home.
On Saturday I meet up with Scott and we go to Topman, where I buy a pair of skinny jeans for £25 (which I later cut into knee-length skinny shorts) and then we go to a ridiculously cheap and tacky sports shop, where I buy two pairs of Adidas shorts for the gym for £2.50 each (which means that I never have to wear my two pairs of Abercrombie shorts to the gym, which I have been wearing for the last six years).
And hopefully with the basic, straight-boy Adidas gym shorts and my frumpy white Marks & Spencer’s underwear, when I go to the gym in Sydney, gay people who are training there will be thinking: is he gay / no he can’t be gay / look at those shorts and/or underwear / etc.
On Saturday evening I meet up with Mean and we’re heading out to Hoxton Square, which is in East London and used to be leftfield and “happening” about nine years ago.
But because I’m unaware of this degradation of Hoxton Square bars I try to outdo those trendy East London types, by wearing something suitably ridiculous, which comprises the skinny jeans I prepared earlier / white plimsolls / green t-shirt with a picture of a British stamp on it, only with Madonna’s face instead of the Queen’s.
Which reminds me of a conversation I had with some gay friends not too long ago, about the difference between gay bars and straight bars. If you’re a guy and you go to a gay bar people will check you out and stare out you no matter what. If you’re a guy and you go to a straight bar, you’re invisible, because in straight bars girls are the story, girls are the stars. Which is something I’m OK with at the moment.
Then I catch the tube home and Mean catches a cab home and soon Mean starts texting me about his super chatty cab driver and how he picked up David Schwimmer apparently and I text back “any good Marcel stories” and Mean texts back “great head apparently” and then I get home.