Wednesday, 26 January 2011


Pride season is pretty much over and all I’ve got to show for it is a killer hangover and a huge dent in my personal finances. Now all the messy, political stuff is out of the way, it’s back to partying the carefree, shameful way. You know, the way those people in the adverts do. ‘You wouldn’t start your night looking like this, so why end it this way?’ Well, um, actually, why not? And if I’ve not got in from my night out yet, why not haul myself over for brunch at Harvey Nick’s in whatever I was wearing last night? I wear the stains like badges of honour. Sometimes the stains help me identify exactly what I have been up to. Sick means booze. Blood means S&M. Leaves mean bushes.

Going out, especially at Pride, is only measured a success by the amount of shame the next day.

But now Pride season is over and I can relax.

Or at least, I could if it wasn’t freshers’ week at the end of the month. But that offers new opportunities. Fresh meat. Hot young boys, drunk, naïve and eager to have fun. I might not even leave the house till midnight, then I can just skim the totty from the streets in a continuous stream until the end of the night.

In order to be a good fresher, of course, you have to be game for anything. It’s part of the bonding rituals. Part of uni life. And in order to be a good gayer, you have to know how to pick them up. The more hardcore among us will be camped outside the nightclubs like particularly ardent festival fans waiting for the gates to open. Then, as soon as the first fresher crosses the threshold, they’ll snap into action, slapping fake tan across their limbs, powdering their noses and tangling their hair in greasy knots. They’ll dash inside, tongues waggling, and fall over themselves (and each other) to deliver cheesy chat-up lines and offer to buy (no doubt rohypnol-laced) drinks.

This year I’ve had a better plan: host freshers’ week at mine. I’ve put up the posters, paid for the ads and sent out armies of boys to flyer and promote. Doors open at 8pm and close sometime around June. Bring your wallet, your best outfit, a change of pants and seventeen or more friends. Condoms will be provided in the industrial-sized bins in every room. Get your money ready at the door, drop your pants and prepare to get screwed. Only the sexiest need bother coming.

Freshers’ week is the most important time of year for any gay scene. It brings in the new faces, without which the bored scene queens would erupt into civil war. Fres meat is good, because there are barely enough gay men to keep any scene alive without newbies arriving to spice things up again. How many times can we visit the same five or ten venues, week in, week out, without going mad?

This year I also plan to travel even more. How else can I top the last year’s shagging record?

If you see me around, buy me a drink. But be nice. I might just put you in my column.

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