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Monday, July 28, 2003

Accidental Tourist

Actually, following on from the last post, I like the regional Prides because they actually feel a little proper, and you don’t have the owl-like Jeremy ‘360’ Joseph prowling the grass looking for ten pences and ten year olds. I’ve had a spate of running into them; the wife and I popped up to Birmingham one weekend and discovered a thronging mass of marys around the town hall. We thought there was an Ikea sale, but it turned out just to be some soap c-list on the top of a stepladder with a megaphone. She had nice hair.

Accidentally, I went to the Leicester one. Leicester is the home of my former poly (nee ‘university’) and where I got my bubblegum degree from, and where I met my devil-worshipping best friend Declan (oddly on holy ground). My reprobate friend James – or ‘Gertie’ – was arriving to join me in a ‘university exchange’, where I show him my alma marta and he shows me his. We’d managed to get the last two hotel rooms in the city - ‘Leicester is full’ stated one website. Of what came as a complete surprise - gays. It was Pride.

We toured the bars on the Friday night and ended up without any degree of surprise at the one mary club in Leicester. It’s called Streetlife, and probably because ‘it’s the only place to go’. As we left, we discovered that the Harry Potter book was out and WHSmith was having a midnight opening, and with my last sheckles I bought the sizable tome and fell asleep under it at 2.30 that morning, causing considerable injury to myself.

YOU HAVE NOTHING TO BE PROUD ABOUT

Pride itself was a let down, which was fun in itself. Three tents, a drag queen and a man dressed in a chicken outfit. The latter clucked up to Gertie and held out his hand, and the young boy foolishly took it. “Look at that,” crowed the costume to the ‘crowd’. “Out in the middle of the field with a stranger’s cock in his hand!”
He should have crowed it nearer the bushes; they were rustling with an intensity that one would have thought that the badgers were terraforming. We lasted an hour; we saw Old Mother Tatchell stalking towards the VIP area with a look on his face and decided to beat a hasty exit. Which also was going on in the bushes, I believe.

YOU HAVE NOTHING TO BE PROUD ABOUT II

We went clubbing again in the evening and danced to Girls Aloud.
Brilliant.

YOU HAVE NOTHING TO BE PROUD ABOUT III

Sunday we caught the slow train back and was going to upgrade to first, but the only difference between first and standard was a different antimacassar on the head rest. While I hunted for the buffet bar, I caught the eye of this swarthy gentleman sitting up near the front of the train. I thought nothing of it and returned to my seat to where Gertie and I were battling through the injuring Potter book.
Half hour later, I saw the certain gentleman stalking along the train, checking each carriage. He saw me, stopped and turned to stare with that intense look out of the window that only means ‘I’m not looking at anything.” A moment later, he moved back to the door area, standing pointedly next to the toilet. I sighed, and leaned forward to Gertie and told him what was going on. “Be a dear and go and service him, would you?” I asked. “He’ll only be hanging around for the next half hour otherwise.” With a raised eyebrow and a feral look in his eyes, my Ambassador For Toilet Sex stuck in his bookmark.

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