I’m staring out the coach window and I’m tired. My hair is a
mess, my nails are a chipped barely there blue, and I’m clutching overpriced WH
smiths notes paper because the mere concept of writing this down and not having
to wait is worth the sting of the credit card. London has left me in a state of
tired where I’m somehow desperate for both sleep and company yet starved of
both. But lets start from the beginning.
I was speaking to an acquaintance of mine that I hadn’t seen
in a while, and he mentioned in passing “student pride,” A London event they
did every year. This seed, once planted managed over the course of a month to
snowball into coach tickets and a hostel booked for the weekend, helped along
by “maybes” from my actual friends that became no’s swiftly after I booked it.
So the week rolls around and I’m suffering extra shifts at
work with London as the light at the end of the tunnel. Four days of minimum
wage and a 6 hour bus journey later I arrive in London, my phone basically a
zombie from the music I was listening to. It was there that I witnessed the
first blow London had to offer. A 20 person hostel with triple bunkbeds and
thick curtains lining each bunk. The bed itself resembled a crashmat from
primary school and the bedsheets were thick enough to block out radiation. I
shrugged it off, you get what you paid for and the room was £14 a night. It
wasn’t like I was planning to spend much time there.
The acquaintance, Marcus, summons me via text for help with
set up. So I turn up and after some chuckle brother-esque near misses we
finally met. A short, half Asian man, He was in a canary yellow get up. He had
a track record for wearing outlandish clothes. Last time I saw him there was a
croptop involved. He lead me downstairs and gave me a drive by tour before
starting with a few of the lighter jobs. I followed in an unsure haze. “you
don’t need to follow me around like a lost puppy” he offered, before dishing
out the easier jobs for me. I smiled and made small talk, doing what I was
told. “what’s your tee shirt size?” he questioned among the banter. “medium,
why?” I responded, feeling the bane of surprise labour encase me. “we need
ticketers and since you wanted to help” he trailed off. This wasn’t what I signed up for, how did this happen?
I nodded along under the pretence of free tee shirts and
preferential treatment … except I left
my tee at the party and forgot to give myself the discounts I originally paid
for and was put in charge of dishing out.
It was also here that I saw my first genderless bathroom in
public (not including disabled toilets etc.) I did a double check, not wanting
to get caught out, “you said unisex earlier … you meant the toilet not just the
tee shirt, right?” I received a pitying look, one that said poor naïve gayby. “it’s a gay bar, they
know your probably joining the girls in the loo for sexy reasons” he justified.
I shrugged, I never cared about the whole gendered bathroom debate. Nothing
actually sexy has ever happened in the loo.
At that note I shake the thoughts of escape out of my head
like an etch-a-sketch and remind myself of the yes theory mantra of seek
discomfort, before finally the army of netted twinks and artsy lesbians
baked in glitter came in. It was a Britney spears based zombie hoard and I -
having had half an hour of notice and no training - did my best.
When the Cardiff lot arrived, I said hi and hid into my “pleb
clothing” (as my drunken self described them) and began to mingle awkwardly. It
was like getting blood from a stone. They only vaguely remembered me, and those
who did knew me as a friend’s plus one, which lead to some goofy instagramable
photos and conversations that had the substance of packing foam. Needless to
say they did a French exit on me by accident. but I was eager to adventure on
regardless. It wasn’t my first time solo travelling and it probably won’t be my
last.
So I rock up at heaven (the club) and realise my lack of pink
“free entry” wristband. Fuck! I
queued up, and a slightly troubling number of security checks later I was
in. It was warehouse-y, the way a club
in Budapest was … except for triple the amount of Britney. Not even good
Britney either. So I explore, I dance, I loiter, until halfway through “I don’t
care” the song by Icona pop. This slightly blocky looking south Asian (Indian?)
dude in a choker and a pretty girl in similar gear begin to dance with me. Friends! I think goofing around, maybe they’ll adopt me.
That was until … at the climax of the song, the choker lad
leaned in. I swerved his attempt at a kiss, taken back and he corrected himself
before returning to default. He didn’t even know my name. he wasn’t bad
looking, just not my usual type… maybe if he actually asked I’d have considered
it. I was also propositioned by a more Michael Macintyre looking gentleman
tried his luck, which I responded with a cold shoulder that could have frozen a
steak. I left for the hostel and after various uber/tube station calamities
crashed for a few hours.
On arrival the next morning, the university was completely
different. There were strangers in glitter everywhere. I explored, receiving
heaps of employment leaflets, charity info, and app recommendations from
technicolour clothes and too much glitter. I especially pittied the sexual
health people and their advice, which all centred around getting tested every
three months and getting preventative medication for sex I wasn’t having. I sat
in a chair nook and tried to shake off the brands sensory arms race. Before the
trip I joked that “if shit his the fan I’ll run off the Camden” … I didn’t
realise that was a Chekov’s gun situation.
So I did, and it was less suffocating, yet I still didn’t
quite feel right, so I did as I always do in times of trouble. I called my dad.
Just a few minutes did me the world of good. It was refreshing to have a
conversation that wasn’t purely transactional. It also began to dawn on me that
the solo teen pity party I was having sounded like an angsty teen 2000s emo
song.
After breathing in the energy of Camden market I returned to
the event, caught a snippet of some song cover and the tail end of the Ian
mckellen interview, but I was too exhausted to take in his witty banter. I also
swore that if I had to endure one more gaga/Britney song I’d have to deck the
DJ. Why couldn’t the gays like indie songs? Just give me one queer indie bar.
One.
After a wholefoods pizza slice the size of my face and a grim
health drink to wash it down, I found myself visiting Soho. No. I found myself
doing laps of it. Partly out of being lost, partly due to the perfect people-watching
it provided, with everything from specialist slightly trashy gay underwear to
bars with poor young men vogueing in barely any clothing doing what I refuse to
refer to as dancing. It was also there (although much later) that I was offered
“Charlie” by 4 separate strangers. I’m not even sure what Charlie is, but I bet
it gets sold by the gram.
Back at heaven for round 2 and I notice someone, a girl in
maroon perched by herself. I began chatting and she bantered back a bit. she
was taller than most, mid 20s, and kind of librarian-ish looking. Judging by
the facial features I suspected she was transgender (albeit an almost passing
one.) A theory that was confirmed by her dealing with curious yet harmless
drunken strangers and their questions as I watched in silence. If I wasn’t
planning to go below the belt then it really wasn’t my business.
She explained her situation (socially, not biologically) as
an employee of the event who came down impulsively from the north for the party
and ended up also getting flaked on. We danced awkwardly and laughed. The
dynamic was very much like co-workers at a Christmas party. Apparently company
is the difference between a good laugh and a flaming hot garbage fire of a
party.
After a few hours of mingling and dancing we went our
separate ways and I returned to Soho to find a wildly different atmosphere. The
aftermath of parties soaked the pavement, the bars were dark, and there was
drunken merriment from strangers, finally I head home.
***
The final morning I was defeated. I used an old tee shirt as
a makeshift towel and try to have a calmer day. I learned a few things that
morning, 1. Gay bookshops are a weird combination of ivory tower activism and
90s smut with monochrome abs on them, 2. I would make a killing as an ancient
roman, 3. Soho has always stayed the same, there have always been cross
dressers and scandals since before the Victorians*. Which leaves me to the
mocha stained, slightly smelly mess on the coach.
*weirdly enough apparently cross dressing was legal, sodomy
wasn’t. proving it was a whole thing
But the chaos didn’t stop there. I arrived in Liverpool at
midnight, my phone died and the trains weren’t running. Stranded at the last
hurdle. I asked in a pub and was locked out. I asked elsewhere and cursed the
myth of northern hospitality. MACCIES!
I grinned, scurrying through the night. It was by the 4th plug I
tried that the security guard kindly informed me that the power to
the sockets went off at night. I kept going. Wincing at the louder, more aggressive strangers. It was only when a lad throwing sweets at his friend noticed my distain that fear began to settle in. was I stranded? Was I gonna get murdered at midnight in the north? Then I saw pink! (and no, the accidental theme is not lost on me.) a dessert place? Fast food? They let me charge my phone, and with an extremely pricey black cab I managed to do home one minute short of a Britney style break down.
