BY Anthony Gilét

I think people have this misunderstanding of karma; they believe an intentional wrong-doer finally gets what is coming to them with a huge comeuppance. But sometimes, karma is a little more subtle. It isn’t necessarily this great big avalanche of Herpes. Sometimes, it’s merely a whisper… and sometimes, that’s all you need to hear.

The inciting incident I’m referring to happened one midweek evening. Nothing special or exciting. A very ordinary, bland evening. Basically, if the evening was a person, it would be Kristen Stewart. We’re having our usual Cocktalk about who’s got a bigger dick: Bruce or Kris Jenner, when this cracked out goat comes all up in my grill asking why I’m talking ’bout her for. GURL, I didn’t even know you existed until your gap tooth interrupted my Daquiri. Besides, why would I need to shade you out when you’re making quite an example of yourself as it is? Paranoid much. Pacing around Rupert Street with pupils as big as your blemishes on a Wednesday night – go hail a taxi and tell him to take to somewhere decorum doesn’t exist.

Who let Amanda Bynes out of Betty Ford?


So after an unnecessary altercation he must’ve got the whiff of irrelevance and followed it out the door.

Then, a month following the situation, don’t think that ratchet dreg is up in the same club as me again. Not that I’d even noticed, because at right about this point he’s as irrelevant to me as Lea Michelle to Jessica Lange. Next thing you know, she takes up a pew beside me…


When I told the pedestrian to have a seat – I didn’t mean at my table. I cast him a smile as convincing as Alex Reid in a dress. But I wanted to see what the basic had to say for herself, after that erratic performance she put on last time. Naturally, he doesn’t even acknowledge it – because he was probably so horrifically off his tits that he didn’t even remember. I mean, he must’ve been on the verge of going under when he picked out that outfit anyway.

Needless to say, I awaited to see what would come out of his mouth this time (I was betting either bullshit or G breath). As it turns out we have some mutual friends – as all gays do – and one particular link in common.

The topic of conversation moves:

“You know that blog Cocktails and Cocktalk…”

Erm, you mean the biggest fad to hit the London gay scene since “hosting” became a profession. Yeah, I’m vaguely familiar.

“Is that you, who writes that?” he continued. Like, duh.


“Oh I didn’t realise”. Please. Don’t tell me she now wants to make peace just because I post whatever shit comes into my head online. If desperation keeled over and died on the street, she could give it the kiss of life. Clucking for my approval like some diseased pigeon.

He then goes on to tell me how C&C is so relatable. Hold on, did he really just compare my life to his? Of course babes, because we’re total parallels. Just like when Nobu run out of lobster they serve crayfish instead. CRAY. Fish. There was one ‘Thought of the Day’ he particularly enjoyed because he felt it spoke to him. I almost had a cardiac arrest right in the middle of Circa. Out of ALL the posts, he’d mentioned that one. That one that was based on me fucking your man?




Though I dare not tell him that, even the mere thought that she and I once shared a man makes my stomach curdle like semen in dirty bath water. So just to RE-CAP: You went a little loco and caused a scene (with a stranger) for no other reason than to silence the voices in your head… and as the story unravels, I banged your man before we’d even met. Oh honey, even Kirk Norcross’ nudes aren’t as sweet as this moment.

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