With My Kind
Yesterday
I met for the first time my very nice Facebook friend from Adelaide, J. H. We had a few drinks and a long chat in the French Pub down in old Soho. And then I was
supposed to be on my way to Whitechapel Gallery for Sarah Lucas. Thought
I would have a late lunch first. Went into a small Italian place off
Dean Street.
I ordered a glass of red wine with my meal. I was seated in the window, from where I had a great view of some amusing activities centred around a nondescript doorway down a lane-way opposite.
The restaurant reeked of raspberry-scented candles that had been placed, lit, all along the window ledge, so my food when it came was almost unrecognised by my taste-buds. Two Australian women came in and sat behind me, talking loudly about 'footy' and 'a sale at Myers' and 'Kyle Sandilands' until I wanted to scream - or throw raspberry-scented candles at them.
After lunch I wandered down Old Compton Street, which I was pleased to see had a large number of gay bars. It now became clear that I would be postponing Sarah Lucas. I plumped for 'Comptons' and strode purposefully in.
This place had an oaken, horseshoe bar and a rainbow flag across the ceiling. The clientele was very mixed in age and appearance. Although it was only 3.30 in the afternoon, the place was busy. The three friendly, black-clad bar staff were very amusing. One was a late-twenties hunky Spaniard named Fernando - all slicked back long hair and tattooed arms; one was about twenty-five, English - Will; and the other was Israeli, about thirty - Frank. Sweet little Frank was five-foot tall with a lustrous black beard and crew-cut; he was very camp, and he had a thing for Fernando, which was being enacted for the benefit of the amused patrons around the bar. At every opportunity he would rub against him, make doe eyes at him and fondle his biceps. All to the total indifference of Fernando.
I got talking to some of the other customers and had some great conversations. How lovely it must be for the gay men of London to have such a range of bars they can frequent, day or night, right in the middle of the city. What a change from dreary, homophobic Melbourne. I also recalled that everywhere on the streets here one can see double-decker buses driving by with the message: 'Some People Are Gay - Get Over It' across their sides. This is a country that has gone out of its way to make sure that gay people are seen as a valued part of the fabric of the culture.
I stayed for several hours talking and watching the hilarious antics of little Frank. Then I realised that I'd promised to make dinner that night, so made my wobbly way out to find a supermarket.
I ordered a glass of red wine with my meal. I was seated in the window, from where I had a great view of some amusing activities centred around a nondescript doorway down a lane-way opposite.
The restaurant reeked of raspberry-scented candles that had been placed, lit, all along the window ledge, so my food when it came was almost unrecognised by my taste-buds. Two Australian women came in and sat behind me, talking loudly about 'footy' and 'a sale at Myers' and 'Kyle Sandilands' until I wanted to scream - or throw raspberry-scented candles at them.
After lunch I wandered down Old Compton Street, which I was pleased to see had a large number of gay bars. It now became clear that I would be postponing Sarah Lucas. I plumped for 'Comptons' and strode purposefully in.
This place had an oaken, horseshoe bar and a rainbow flag across the ceiling. The clientele was very mixed in age and appearance. Although it was only 3.30 in the afternoon, the place was busy. The three friendly, black-clad bar staff were very amusing. One was a late-twenties hunky Spaniard named Fernando - all slicked back long hair and tattooed arms; one was about twenty-five, English - Will; and the other was Israeli, about thirty - Frank. Sweet little Frank was five-foot tall with a lustrous black beard and crew-cut; he was very camp, and he had a thing for Fernando, which was being enacted for the benefit of the amused patrons around the bar. At every opportunity he would rub against him, make doe eyes at him and fondle his biceps. All to the total indifference of Fernando.
I got talking to some of the other customers and had some great conversations. How lovely it must be for the gay men of London to have such a range of bars they can frequent, day or night, right in the middle of the city. What a change from dreary, homophobic Melbourne. I also recalled that everywhere on the streets here one can see double-decker buses driving by with the message: 'Some People Are Gay - Get Over It' across their sides. This is a country that has gone out of its way to make sure that gay people are seen as a valued part of the fabric of the culture.
I stayed for several hours talking and watching the hilarious antics of little Frank. Then I realised that I'd promised to make dinner that night, so made my wobbly way out to find a supermarket.
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