I had a lovely weekend, involving two lots of clubbing and a yummy lunch out on Sunday. There was no sex, or drugs, I just said that to get your attention, but I did get called a faggot in the street. More on that later though.
Posts Tagged ‘why yes I am a homo’
February 8, 2010 by superlativeWe thought we would give Don’t Stop Believin another try on Friday night, after last week’s enjoyable but rather under-populated launch night. Our friend Alice was quite keen to try it as the music they say they’ll play always sounds so good, so we thought it would be worth a go and hoped a few more people would be dancing this time. Unfortunately, there were actually even fewer people there this time than before, so it was a bit of a washout really.We still had a nice time, and we sat upstairs in the bar area to start with while we had a couple of drinks, but then as soon as you move downstairs to the club bit it just turns into a very chilly and very empty evening. The music was fine, quite good even, but when you’re the only three people dancing it just doesn’t feel all that much fun. So I think we lasted until about 1am this week, by which point we were fairly sure hoards of people weren’t going to arrive at any moment, so we called it a night. It’s a shame, as I said last week, because the club night is right up our street in terms of atmosphere and the playlist. I might not go again though, at least not until I see that it has got a bit busier.Then Saturday night was the FABULOUS Pop Kraft, which was much much busier, and was highly enjoyable. We had a few drinks at home, then waited for Alice to ditch her match.com date and come join us for our two-nights-in-a-row we’-re-still-young-aren’t-we trip to the Hanbury Ballroom. It was PACKED when we got there, which was a welcome contrast to the previous night. The music’s always really good there too, the Size Zero Albino and Boogaloo Stu both play really good stuff, and I think we’ve only ever had one night out at Pop Kraft that we haven’t really enjoyed.There was one slight wobble when the bar managed to enrage Chris so much I thought he was going to batter someone to death, by running out of change during the first hour. So after queuing up for 20 minutes to get served he was told he could only have drinks if he had the right money. “Do you take cards?”, he asked. “No,” said the unapologetic barman. There’s a card machine there behind the bar at the Hanbury of course, there always is, but for some idiotic reason it’s NEVER working. “So what do you want me to do?”, Chris enquired. “I don’t know,” said barman. What the fuck is that?? Do they not WANT to make any money? That was the fault of the Hanbury as a venue though, not the people who run Pop Kraft. If they had no change, they should either have given you the £12 round for £10, or found some way of giving you additional drinks until it made a round number. Tsk. So we only had one round of drinks there all night, which was fine for us because it made it fantastically cheap, but ridiculous for any club to operate like that. GET A FUCKING CARD MACHINE HANBURY BALLROOM (I’m assuming they’ll read this, everyone does don’t they?).Other than the No Drinks For You fiasco, we had a fab time. We acquired/stole some Glee facemasks of Sue Sylvester and Artie, which I’m sure will come in handy for… er… nothing, and we went fucking MENTAL when they played Don’t Stop Believing. As did the whole club actually, there was a bit of Glee fever going on in there that night. And we stayed until the end, which we don’t always do so I guess we must have been having a good time.The three of us wandered back home through Kemptown singing Don’t Stop Believing quietly (loudly) to ourselves, and it was at this point that a charming young man decided to say “Faggots” at us as he walked past with his friends. Due to a combination of booze and the fact we were at a good bit in the song (the bit that goes ‘Somewhere in the NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT’) I didn’t actually care that much at the time, but once I got home I was quite annoyed. It’s only happened to me a handful of times that I’ve been homophobically abused in the street (once on the Isle of Wight, and couple of times near the Level, which is apparently a hotspot for cockmunchers in white transits to drive past and shout “Poofs” at you), so I’ve been quite lucky really. I’ve never been attacked or anything, and I don’t actually care if someone calls me a faggot. I know what I am and I like what I am, so you’d have about as much chance of insulting me if you called me tall. It’s the fact that this person obviously thinks they’re better than you because they like to put their penis into vaginas, and because the only reason they’re saying it is to show off in front of their friends. No one ever shouts that sort of thing when they’re on their own, it’s like a stupid schoolboy thing they do to look cool.So that pissed me off a bit, because even in Brighton you apparently can’t escape from retarded idiocy. But it didn’t ruin my night, which was EXCELLENT.And then we had a lovely lunch in Gourmet Burger Kitchen on Sunday where I stuffed my fat face with a massive chicken, camembert and cranberry burger. It was gorgeous.All in all it was a lahvely weekend. We have such a nice life, I sometimes think, and I should be more grateful for it.
October 7, 2008 by superlative
I’m having a bit of a dilemma about my brother’s wedding next year. Unlike my wedding, to which I simply didn’t invite them, there will be a number of family members on my Dad’s side at my brother’s wedding who don’t know about me enjoying the boy love. So I’m in a predicament about what to do regarding Chris and taking him with me or not.
Historically, this hasn’t been much of a problem because I hardly ever see that side of the family, and I’m more than adept at side-stepping the occasional “haven’t you got a girlfriend yet” question once every six months when I do see them. I’m also not particularly close to them (i.e. I don’t actually like them), so have seen no reason to share that side of my life with them.
I don’t particularly care if people like my uncle or cousins know; their opinion is basically meaningless to me. I do resent the idea that they would quite possibly look down on me if they knew, when in fact they are fairly mediocre individuals who have no right to look down on me at all, but I could probably live with it by simply never seeing or thinking about them ever again. But in the past I have dug my heels in about my grandad knowing. Not, of course, because I care that much about his opinion either; he’s a cantankerous and rude old man who has always been quick to voice his negative judgements about me and my brother and has traditionally favoured our cousins because they are “good with their hands” rather than academic achievers. The reason has been that he is fairly wealthy and I haven’t wanted to be screwed out of my inheritance by his bigoted attitudes after all these years of putting up with him.
So it has been very easy these past ten years simply not to tell them, rarely to see them, and when my Mum asks “wouldn’t it nice for it to be out in the open?” for me to reply that no it would not.
But Dave’s wedding will bring things to a head. They’ve said they would love for Chris to be there as he’s family and has a right to be there, but that they’ll leave the decision up to me. So do I:
- take him as my partner and out myself at the wedding, possibly causing a scene at Dave’s wedding which I do not want to do
- out myself in advance of the wedding and then take Chris, again with the potential for a scene
- take him as my secret partner but officially just as a friend of Dave and Janine’s who is sitting on the same table as me (might be a bit obvious, don’t know)
- go on my own but then have Chris come later to the evening along with other evening guests
- go without Chris at all, and when asked “when are you getting married then?” refrain from replying “I got married last year thanks, you just weren’t invited”
Oh it’s so difficult. Would people guess if Chris were there not as my boyfriend? My grandad probably not, but uncles possibly. And then there is always the risk that someone in Janine’s family (who presumably all know about me, there’s no reason they wouldn’t) might get chatting to one of them and ask if they enjoyed my wedding last year (clang, huge piece of metal hits marble floor).
And do I still care if they know? Not really. If I’m excommunicated I won’t be that bothered, I just won’t have to endure my grandad at Christmas any more. But I do care that it might be my Dad that gets flack off my grandad for it (although he’d probably tell him to shut his face), and I don’t want to inflict that upon him. I don’t even care that much about the money any more.
Hum. Don’t know. Whatever I choose has the potential to be a disaster.Blogged with the Flock Browser