Last night I went to this LA gay bar called ‘Rage’ where there was an event called ‘Varsity’ where anyone over the age of eighteen can get in (although clearly they can’t drink). In England, of course, this wouldn’t be an issue. And as I pointed out to someone, it’s no use having new people around if you aren’t allowed to get them drunk enough to have sex with you. Still – at least they looked pretty.
People here seem fascinated by my accent, by which I suppose I mean my lack of accent. Last time I was in LA a waiter asked me, “Is that an accent?”. I replied of course, “No”. Last night this bloke said that he, “really liked foreigners” (a strange thing to say at the best of times), to which I replied, “you should – you are one”. I’m more than aware that this is why English people are cast as the evil people in movies, but nonetheless it’s very entertaining.
So here am I – 28, crumbly and creased – untanned, ageing and flatulent, in a city of ten thousand million buff bodies and perfect smiles. What’s a boy to do?