•22 February 2010 • Leave a Comment

It was the day of the clegs. They’re these black flies that are bigger than they need to be and somewhere along the way I’ve gotten it into my head that they only show up on one day of the year. This is just a theory I made up, but I haven’t seen it disproved yet. On the day of the clegs, the fuckers are everywhere. You walk down the street and they blunder into your face. You look down and they’re crawling on your t-shirt. Gross.

So it was the day of the clegs, a hot day in the summer, and in the evening I assembled people to go to The Golden Hour at the Forest, but when we got there I didn’t feel like it. The prospect of being crammed into a stuffy room didn’t appeal; it gets too crowded when it’s the Golden Hour, and I can’t hack it, much as I’d like to attend. Plus I hadn’t seen some of my friends in a while and I wanted to catch up with them. So we legged it to the off-licence two minutes before closing, bought some alcohol and drank it outside on the pavement. #205 distributed cups so we looked slightly more civilised. Once the event was over, we wound up inside and I drank bramble wine and berry wine and ate chocolate cake.

Few people seem to have a makeout rate to rival mine, but I witnessed #205 doing the rounds. Holy shit. I put on a CD and we danced to Civil Twilight by the Weakerthans. We made out by the staircase. It was a late night; when I woke up I found mystery bruises that were practically black.

A few days later I had a stall at the zine fair that #205 had co-organised. That was how we’d originally met, I think; she’d invited me to take part in it. #196 kindly came along to keep me company, and I wrote some blurb explaining what kind of stuff was in my zine, and endured the usual awkward moments of people flicking through your very personal thoughts and then putting them down again and walking away; but in the end, I sold quite a few.

I was tired. Late in the evening, I returned to the Forest for #205’s genderfuck party. She was leaving town the next day. I had decided to try to be edge, and I had been there all of five seconds, standing against the wall waiting for #196, listening to music, oblivious, when #205 appeared by my side, in drag king mode, and handed me some vodka punch. I was shy around her. I would have probably made out with her later, or certainly made a move in that direction, but it was not to be, because then there was some drama with my friends and we left the party early.

It was a long time before I saw her again: more than a year. She was back in town for a while – for longer than she expected, due to a passport glitch that left her stranded. Out of the blue, I got an invitation to her birthday night out. I happened to be getting drunk with #191 and her girlfriend and #116, so by the time we made it to the pub, I’d forgotten why we were there and was surprised to run into #205. As a result I don’t remember a whole lot of our conversation either. I’d gotten back together with #116 by that point (you know, the undocumented post-blog-entry version) and #205 was possibly interested in her or in me or in both of us, it’s hazy so it’s hard to say. “If you want to get off with her go ahead,” #116 advised, but I knew she wasn’t really okay with it, and I skipped it: we were too drunk to suddenly, finally, have the non-monogamy talk, it would have to wait.



•18 February 2010 • Leave a Comment

#200, #201, #202, #203. Wasn’t that enough for one night? I woke up the next morning – my homing mechanism had gotten me safely to my own bed despite only the blurriest recollection of the journey home – and pieced things together as best I could. There was something else, I reckoned. I’d met someone else … who was it? Did I make friends with a rickshaw driver last night?

I scrolled through my phone to see if there were any names I didn’t recognise, and eventually found one. It could’ve been there for a while; it happens sometimes. (Who the hell was ‘Mark Australian’?) But maybe it was the mystery rickshaw driver. Finally I caved in, texted the number, asked whether we’d met last night. The mystery rickshaw driver agreed that we had, and said I could give him a shout if I wanted to meet for a drink sometime. “You’re French, right?” I asked, trying to recall hazy details, and he said no, he was Polish. This was the sort of thing I would normally remember, given that I’ve been learning Polish on and off for the past few years.

It seemed that I had a date. I hoped he was as cute as I thought I remembered. I appealed to #184‘s community links: “Do you know a Polish pedicab driver called #204?”, but he denied having ever heard of him.

I met up with him the following Sunday. I was nervous: dates still scare the crap out of me, and plus I had to make sure I was early. I needed him to walk in and recognise me, because I wasn’t confident I’d be able to identify him. We met in a café and quickly moved to a pub, and yeah, he was fucking cute. Two things I can generally count on when I’m being a drunken idiot are my homing mechanism and my beer-goggles.

Continue reading ‘#204’


•17 February 2010 • Leave a Comment

From #201 and #202‘s flat, I presumably staggered to the city centre via the Meadows. (I have a policy of not crossing the Meadows on my own at night, not since the time I nearly walked into an ambush, but I guess I was drunk enough to think I could handle anything. Um, great.)

I was heading to a party upstairs from the one where I’d met #199 three weeks previously; he and I had gotten off outside the door. This time round I locked myself in the bathroom with #203 and there was applause when we finally emerged. I also have a flash of being with her in a dark bedroom. She’d never kissed a woman before and I’d offered to help. “#203 is in love with you,” #184 had pronounced dramatically the week before, after I’d introduced the pair of them to Frenchie’s. I’d assumed at the time that this meant platonic straight-girl love, but maybe it was more of the bi-curious variety.

Whatever: it didn’t exactly go according to plan. The next time I saw her, at a bar several weeks later, she only stuck around for half an hour, and avoided the hell out of me. #184 explained that she had some Issues, that it wasn’t about me, it was about her. So it didn’t bother me, but I was sorry that she felt weird. My strategy was to keep out of her way until such time as she felt comfortable with me. It was a couple more months before I saw her again, at the flat where I’d met #199, and I initially kept my distance, but she came right over and started chatting to me and normality was restored.


•15 February 2010 • Leave a Comment

I discovered just today that #202 was not simply #201‘s flatmate: they were in fact in a relationship. This causes the plot to thicken just that little bit more, but there’s not a whole lot I can say about the incident, seeing as I don’t remember it. #202 was American, in possibly her mid- to late forties, and I think we got on okay at the dinner party. I don’t know how come we kissed.

I like to imagine that I then took it upon myself to leave, rather than getting ejected or anything awkward. After all, I had somewhere else to be. The night wasn’t over yet, even if by rights I should have passed out in the gutter around this point.


•12 February 2010 • Leave a Comment

#201 was hosting the dinner party, and she had made amazing tempura, and that is quite literally all I recall of her appearance that night. It’s always kind of weird writing about stuff I don’t actually remember.

She was from Canada and occasionally did drag and we had met up for uncoffee or something a few months previously, when she’d been new in town. But that was about it. We hadn’t hung out again, and I’d only found myself at her place because it’s a small world.

I mean, I had felt kind of like we should probably have stayed in touch, seeing as we had stuff in common and everything, but somehow I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. I don’t remember too much of the first time we met. She was maybe shy or I was maybe distracted, I mean I am often distracted, I have an appalling attention span* and half the time I have a big to-do list on my mind which means I am not always great company when I meet up with people. So I guess our budding new friendship just fizzled, although it was nice to see her that night at the dinner party.

So nice that I made out with her, apparently. I was already trashed and I was only just getting started. I don’t imagine that anybody else was anywhere near as drunk as I was, and the other guests seemed pretty well-behaved so we’re not talking about a scandalous party. I don’t think I actually saw #201 again. So it all remains a mystery.

* I should probably add a disclaimer, seeing as I’ve just applied for a job for the first time in nearly a decade and there’s an outside chance they might find their way to my blog. So: my attention span is just fine, really! This is totally just embellishment for the sake of it! As is, uh, everything else in this blog that might paint me in a dubious light. Definitely.


•8 February 2010 • Leave a Comment

I totally had a crush on #191‘s then-girlfriend. I mean, I probably still do, as well, only I haven’t seen her for ages. Anyway, they were non-monogamous, so that side of things was arguably okay, but there was no way in hell I was going to make a move, because I was just sort of in awe of her and couldn’t begin to imagine doing anything about it. So, as per usual, alcohol eventually stepped in and attempted to sort things out.

I’d gone round to her place and #191 gave us both haircuts. I drank a metric fuckton of red wine and the three of us headed to a vegan sushi dinner party. Most of the other guests seemed to be straight scientists and I attempted conversation with a couple of them but it just wasn’t working out, so I contented myself with doing suave things like trying to pour myself more wine with the lid still on the bottle.

After that, well, we pretty much have to rely on #191’s account. Apparently, I’d kept burbling at her BLAH BLAH BLAH I HAVE SUCH A CRUSH ON #200 IS THAT OKAY and she was all, predictably, GOD! YES! JUST MAKE OUT WITH HER ALREADY! The three of us eventually decided to leave, and in the stairwell #191 realised she had forgotten her scarf so she returned to the party, where she pushed #201 (do you see where this is going?) against the wall and made out with her. Meanwhile I got to make out with #200, except I don’t remember any of it, which is disappointing. And apparently I asked her to come home with me, which she declined. #191 returned and suddenly I was all I’M GOING TO STAY HERE AFTER ALL SEEYA and vanished back into the flat. Like I say, fucking suave.


•7 February 2010 • Leave a Comment

I don’t know if Polish Majorca parties are a regular theme or just something that #184‘s friends were into at the time, but I’ve never been to any non-Polish Majorca parties. Anyway, my second Polish Majorca party involved some low-level foreshadowing (“I am not going to get off with anyone here. Oh wait, I just did”). I showed up with a couple of couchsurfers, and we sat in the corner amongst lots of balloons. About six people in a row made weak jokes about my name and I focused on drinking cheap wine.

Two points about people making weak jokes about my name: 1) This happens all the time; 2) everybody always seems to think they’re the first to comment on it. It’s amazing. The worst, though, is when I am in the process of shaking hands with someone and he starts asking me all about it and I just want my goddamn hand back.

So eventually this boy came and talked to me about the year he lived in Belfast and how it was kind of weird, and then he kissed me but he was trying to be discreet because of, I don’t know, an ex-girlfriend at the party or something like that, so we left the flat and went upstairs and got off in the reasonably filthy stairwell and it was kind of hot.

I don’t remember too many details about him, but then I guess we didn’t spend that much time on conversation. Occasionally he’d say “Belfast girl” and I don’t know whether he just liked the ring of it or if he’d forgotten my name already. He wanted my number and all, but he was like “I’m leaving the country in six days to travel for two months so we have to see each other before then” and I thought, but do we? And we didn’t.

But he kissed me a couple more times, later that year – once at Balkanarama, only #184 was sitting with us and complained loudly until he stopped, thereby killing any prospects of further action for me that night. Thanks, #184! And once at my birthday party, at which #199 was in his customary mode of “I can’t kiss you because someone awkward is around” and then did it anyway.

There was one other time, though, when a bunch of us were at a bar and #199 seemed to be with a girlfriend or similar, and she left early, and I avoided the potential for anything to happen between us because it was like I’d suddenly found myself some moral standards. I guess we all have phases we go through.