I was much cheered by the arrival of Tig's groovy boyf which resulted in me having the most fun I've had in bed with two men in ages, and included inventing a new dinosaur: the drunkoesophagus.
In a last ditch attempt to get me to eat my way out of my hangover Tigs bought me a greasy breakfast. In a triumph of hope over experience, I ate it. And on the train back home from the colonies, just after Newport, breakfast reappeared. Staggering to the bog, one of those high speed train lurches that can only mean impending broken points caused me to projectile vomit all over two no-neck Welsh chavs: over them, their table, their mobiles, their Daily Express, their cheeseburgers. There are few things less appealing on a Monday morning than a short, ugly man in with murderous rage and eggy drool in his too-close-together eyes and a fleck of semidigested bacon lodged in the shaved bit of his eyebrow.
Tip for lady readers no 1: when you barf your guts up before 2.00pm in a public place and people work out it's because you're a gin soaked ruin you will be universally despised. Tell them it's morning sickness and you will be treated like royalty, and no one will be allowed to shout at you or demand you buy them another cheesburger. The very sweet conductor thought it best that I decamp to the quiet coach in first class for 'a little rest' (with him carrying all my luggage, natch) and the buffet car blokey (definitely the only gay in the village, Myfanwy) plied me with free tea and mineral water for the rest of the trip. When some besuited stiff got on at Bristol he was shooed away from sitting at my table in case he disturbed me. Priceless. And justified surely? I was at least as fragile as a pregnant woman. It always takes me nine months to recover from a night of debauchery with Tigs. I only have myself to blame - it was one of the items on my birthday wish list.
I should point out that there was more to my weekend than the Welsh antics. On Friday night I went to B-Movie which was sadly bereft of minusbat, godgirl or ladycat but was oddly rich in attractive men. Thus, of course proving Rosamicula's Third Rule of Sexual Misfortune. Go to a a club in the hope of pulling and there won't be any chance of it happening. Go accompanied by a gentleman escort (well, davywavy) and the place will be pullulating with attractive men and women who seem to eye you approvingly. Especially, and in complete contrast to previous B-Movie experience, men. There were a range of rather lovely ones. There was a bunch of slightly older, rangier guys, with bare wiry arms and cropped or shaved hair who had that elder speed-freak look that brings back happy memories of a mispent youth. Tip for lady readers no 2: older men with a serious speed habit often can't get what's left of it up so compensate in other ways; some of the best heavy petting I've ever had has been from edgy, aggressive wiry-armed guys with dark circles under their eyes and very short tempers (yes minusbat, I do mean him;)).
But there were two guys there I classed as seriously gorgeous - one sleek shaven headed boy who triggered Davy's faulty gaydar, and one rather cruel looking blonde guy with attitude and a sly smile. Davy and I were in agreement on one thing - they both looked like trouble - but we meant very different things by this. Later, the evening, for many of the people there, was ruined by these two, as the latter glassed the former outside the club. And it occurred to me as we watched him bleeding profusely from a hell of a headwound (I had forgotten just how pretty blood on blonde could be) that the main reason I don't stay friends with my exes is that no-one in their right mind would want to be friends with them in the first place, because most of them are precisely the kind of trouble that Davy meant.
Ho hum. Still, I was well out of it, at least this time...