#112 was an old friend of mine. We’d originally met in 1996, I think, when he bought my zine from me in the Limelight, not that I really remember this. We’d hung out over the years when I was back in Belfast. He rescued me when I smoked skunk with a dubious character at a Watercress gig and wound up unable to cope with reality; he rescued me when some boy at a party was coming on to me in a really intense way; he provided crashspace for me and, on occasion, whoever I was getting off with.
He came over to visit me in Edinburgh in 2001, and extended his stay because we were having so much fun. I guess I was still in employment at the time, doing database stuff for a small web design company a couple streets from my flat, but that job only lasted for about a minute. #112 and I went out drinking a lot, and organised a gig for a Belfast punk band, and it snowed, and everything was super.
One night we were at my friend Joanna’s party and were fairly drunk by the time we left. I was aware of #112 suddenly becoming a bit tactile with me. I made out with him when we got back to my place, but taking it any further was never on the cards. He was banished back to the cupboard he’d been sleeping in thus far. We never spoke of the incident.