Last night was spent in one of those modern horrors: pubs entirely enclosed in shopping centres (to my credit, at the behest of a hot girl I haven’t caught up with in months). This particular pub scores even more points of infamy for attempting to recreate a beer garden indoors. Please, please stop with the hurting.
Conversation of the evening would have to be notched up to a random girl I used to work with. Upon realising I was a homo, she piped up gleefully: “My best friend, Simon, is gay!” This was followed by awkwardly expectant nodding and smiling from her, while I gave her the quizzical glare of someone realising there’s now a mint sauce flavour of chips. (Which there is, horrifyingly enough).
So to cut the silence, I hesitantly asked: “Er… Simon?”
The vigorous nodding of her head would have set more than a few neurons loose. “Yeah, Simon! You must know Simon. He’s gay.”
Seriously. She thought I personally knew her best mate because he happens to enter a room through the beef curtains as well. Then again, I suppose you can’t expect much of someone who populates an intra-shopping centre hotel on a Friday night.