So what else has happened is that I have now found my housemate in Sydney, a housemate that is a friend of friends (whom I hardly know really) on facebook, which I suppose is as good a guarantee as any. And this is a person that is Australian, but not from
And it’s Friday when I finish work, meet up with Scott and we catch a train up to
a) I want to visit my best friend Andrews, who I lived with back then, then he left a while after I left, and now he’s moved back there
b) It’s Manchester Pride this weekend, and as I’m so immensely proud to be gay, because it’s always so comfortable when you meet new people or start a new job and somebody asks you if you have a girlfriend and you have to mumble “erm…I’m actually gay”, so I can’t miss any Pride event around the country
c) I am doing some more ridiculous “work” up there, of the same sort that I did in Soho Pride the week before
So we get there on Friday at 1825 or something and Andrews with his boyfriend pick us up from the train station and drive us to their flat (sorry – apartment, they refer to it as an “apartment”), an apartment which has two bedrooms, is on the 7th floor of a very nice brand new development and has floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking a canal, lots of space everywhere and Korres toiletries, and they pay about 25% less rent per month than I do for my ridiculous, deteriorating little flat in Central West London.
In the evening we head out and this is when my first work shift is. This work shift (and the two subsequent ones, really) involve Scott and me having the name of some website painted on out chests and standing there, either on Manchester’s gay street or in some club. I used to object to things like that and think that people who did them were almost subhuman, so feel free to make your own judgements too, I know I would. But right now, faced with only four and a half more weeks of a regular income and subsequent to that a big void of uncertainly, I have let my standards slip quite significantly. Maybe this is how people feel about prostitution; maybe this is the next logical step.
So we’re out doing that and the best thing that happens during that night is that, now wait, there isn’t one. Instead, I get involved in several random conversations like this:
Drunken guy who comes up to me: “I suppose you have to have a certain physique to do this job”
Me: “Well I suppose, yes”
Drunken guy: “And shave your chest”
Me: “I don’t shave my chest”
Drunken guy: “Yeah, OK. How old are you”
Drunk guy: “And you don’t shave your chest? Right. What’s your name?”
Me: “___” (my real name)
Drunken guy: “That’s not your real name, is it”
If you’re outside
Also have I mentioned how much I hate drunken people? I hate drunken people. I just can’t deal with them.
Then we get home and then we sleep.
On Saturday evening we go out for dinner and then after that Scott and I go out for a bit more “work”. This time we’re working at the biggest party of the weekend, one of the usual Pride parties with thousands of people in a massive venue walking around aimlessly trying to find some quick thrills and each other. I am not up for any quick thrills of course, so I just stand there for a couple of hours as I’m paid to do, and then we catch a taxi home.
On Sunday there isn’t much time to do anything, apart from catch a train back to