Yesterday the Evening Standard published an article about East London as an up and coming hotspot for the gay community. It’s often thought that if you’re gay you either go out in Soho or in Vauxhall – the divide being alcohol and drugs. (And in conjunction with this; music). But there’s clusters of cool gay hangouts around the city, and I remember the first time we went east…
What a f*ckin’ hole! The hole being a) the hungry one that girated against me that night, b) the K-hole we’d found ourselves in at c) The Joiners Arms. As boys of the South we weren’t really accustomed the East End scene, but like the Queens in shining armour we were, we ventured anyway.
So cut to one of my best pals and I, hunched in a corner, sweating like Joseph Fritzl in an episode of Cribs – in a “trendy” underground club in Shoreditch. It was one of those clubs that didn’t get the memo about the invention of aircon and got so heated even the walls sweated. On the plus side the heat had probably intensified my high. So we made with a disappearing act, military style and duck and rolled into a taxi.
The cab ride was totally surreal, driving passed what looked like a Saudi Arabian riot, but was probably just the smoking area of another bar. I felt like I was in another country and definitely feared for my safety (Karanoia anybody? That’s paranoia on Ketamine).
The Joiners Arms was full of people that definitely needed a good scrub. Now there’s sweaty, and there’s just unclean. I mean really?! These kooky east london artists obviously thought the cracks in the wall were kitch and added character… It’s like no babes. The buildings falling down. And I swear to Gaga, out of the whole venue, I’d would’ve done like ONE guy. How did a place like this even exist?! It looked like the clientelle from The Black Cap had smoked crystal meth and then come for a change of scenery.
I thought I’d moved in with The Goonies for a moment.
Drink NEEDED. That done, we move to the cupboard of a garden to smoke. It’s rammed. We’re stuffed in tighter than Kim Kardashian in a Herve Larger dress. Next thing, muscle mary in front of me starts winding up on my crotch! Oh, LATER! Literally grindin’ and poppin’ his batty all over me like a Nicki Minaj lapdance. He was denim shorts and a hot pink weave away from the Superbass video. I was scared to move in case I accidentally penetrated him. I mean come on, there’s a line between flirting and statutary rape. Obviously a fine one at that for this bucket Barbara.
Talk about inappropriate behaviour, he may have as well’ve put his ankles behind his ears and spread his cheeks. My ever so elegant friend was well and truly flabbergasted and managed to haul me away (“HAAUULL ASS!!” – Phoebe, Friends) before I drowned his over-confidence with my roars of laughter. This was definitely not our scene, we preferred cocktails and cocaine, not cock-heads and crack dens. For a minute I wondered if I’d gone into a K-slumber and dreamt it all. Nope, all real.
We quite happily left before finishing our pints (all that was needed were the parasols and sugar coated rims right?) – we says enough in itself! We taxied back through the denouement of the K-hole, back to Original club sweaty. And d’ya know what? It wasn’t so bad after all, grime over grub anyday!