Saturday 10th November 2007
The dreaded Leaving Do finally arrived.
My first night out in months. Was I nervous? What, of seeing people I care about for the first time in ages? Drinking and having fun? Of course I bloody was, and thank God it’s over.
To be fair, it wasn’t quite as horrendous as I’d feared, but the best part was this diary. And even this had been meant as a joke. Abandoned on the bar next to my sister’s ‘Let’s Keep Him Out There Longer!’ donation pot, there had been no name on the gift label, just a note. “Use this on your travels and quit putting your issues on Myspace!” Bit harsh. I’ve not been on Myspace in ages. It’s all about Faceparty and Friends Reunited now, obviously.
I’d got to the pub early, necked a sneaky double when the new girl wasn’t looking, and started blowing up balloons. Yes, I decorated my own party. I clambered over chairs to hang up my own banners, took a quick selfie on my fancy new ‘smart’ phone I’d queued twelve hours to get, and checked if my Happy Face would fool anyone.
Looking at the results, I should’ve won a bloody Oscar. Realistically jolly dimples sat in my fat cheeks. Blond hair finally gelled into something resembling a style. Blue eyes looking convincingly sparkly, even if they did sit above a nose once described as “a pig snout with pores big enough to serve pudding in.” Not my words. The top button of my shirt strained to contain the seamless meat-roll that was my neck and chin. “You look like A GIANT THUMB!” the person I thought I’d loved had laughed. Charming, right?
I smiled all evening because that’s what I do. Even as I avoided making eye contact with people I love whilst cracking jokes to distract them from asking how I really am. Yet I was still way more relaxed with the Straights at the pub than I was later in the club with “my own kind”, because sometimes I really can’t stand The Gays.
There. I said it.
Every gay guy I’ve ever met – barring one – has sucked. Not in a good way. Last night was no exception. Side-eyes. Bitchy comments. Fake-tanned clones with over-processed hair. Pumped-up peacocks with spray-on jeans. All with zero body fat, gyrating in perfect rhythm to three consecutive Britney remixes. It’s enough to make any hefty homo homophobic. I tried to keep up, finger-pointing my way through the noise as I held my breath to keep my guts sucked in, before calling it a day and wiping my pale and sweaty face on the sleeve of my ill-fitting, non-designer jumper. I re-joined Michael at the bar to get my breath back. He’d immediately tutted.
“For Gaga’s sake, Kev. You’re flying to the other side of the world in the morning! TRY to enjoy yourself.” He patted my knee and sighed dramatically, pushing his dark curly hair from his eyes. “If there was EVER a time for you to take a risk and do something crazy it would be now. Break out of your comfort zone! Do something you’ll regret.” A grin spread across his face. “Or someone.”
He nodded towards an Adonis across the bar. Ripped. Beer in hand. Arse like two smuggled in footballs. “What about him? He’s super cute.”
“No chance,” I scoffed. “Just look at him! Besides, I honestly couldn’t be less interested in men at the moment. I think Phil turned me into a lesbian.”
We both shuddered at the thought.
“The only thing I plan on staggering home with tonight is a portion of chips and a battered sausage.” I jiggled my belly dramatically. “You don’t get one of these without working on it, you know.”
As usual, Michael rolled his eyes. He doesn’t like it when I put myself down, not understanding that if I do it first then no one else can beat me to it.
“For the third time tonight, hun, you are not fat.” He put his arm around me and gave me a tight hug. “You just stand out more, that’s all.”
I smiled as I pulled away, aware of how wobbly and sweaty I must feel. “Why can’t I be one of those people who lose weight when they’re miserable?” I sighed. “Instead, I just want to cut myself –“
Michael shrieked in horror and grabbed my arm to check for scars.
“- a big piece of cake,” I finished. We’d laughed then. First time in ages.
“Kev, can I make a suggestion?” Michael’s face turned unusually serious. “You haven’t had a proper snog since You-Know-Who. I think you should have a practise session before you go, just to iron out any kinks.”
“You-Know-Who? I didn’t date Voldemort. You can say his name.”
“Whatever. Just kiss someone will you? Otherwise you’ll be stuck with me. And that would be weird,” he added.
As I was too nervous to go near anyone else, Michael made good on his threat. It wasn’t awful. He was right though, I had needed a dress rehearsal. It’s probably not wise to make out with your best mate and then scarper, but it wasn’t an un-dressed rehearsal so no harm done.
