It’s after 11pm and I’m nightclubbing in Earls Court. In England in the 80s, if it’s after 11pm and you’re still out and not in a chippy, then you’re officially nightclubbing.The music ain’t Top of the Pops but it’s ok. I’m not drunk (too expensive) or high (not interested) but I am enjoying the atmosphere in the cave-like den of this club. Pillars divide the dance floor and there are cubby holes filled with couches.
The four of us, Liam, Jen, Mag and I, are sitting in one of these cubby hole couches and we’re manscoping – the stern scanning for men, gay or straight, replete with comments like “Ooer, I don’t like yours much”. We’re so not trendy, made evident by our frumpy clothes, compared to the group of people who occupy the couch next to us. One neighbour is wearing a tiny kiddies-birthday-party cowboy hat, American style plaid shirt, rolled up 501s and toy gun holster. He’s adorable. And hot. We can’t stop looking at him.
He stands, and announces: “I have to go wee wee.” But he says it with such a mish mash of accents (fey gay, northern Geordie and effected Southern Drawl) that his voice pierces the music and stuns us momentarily.
After we recover from laughing, we make gunslinger fingerpoints to each other on the dance floor.