Buy your own, goddammit! July 6, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Darlings, I’m sorry to moan on about the same things over and over. Football should be done and dusted soon enough. The Russian has kept blog-worthy moments to a minimum of late. Good-looking men can wait for a post or two… But I just have to moan about cigarette-poncers once more. The blind flaneur did this long ago but then only went and deleted – yes, DELETED! A crime, as if bloggers should feel they have any right over their own words once they’ve been put in the public domain – the post so I’ve got nowhere specific to send you to. (Mind you, he and I also share an interest in hair.) (Modern heterosexual men make life very difficult for us queens you know. All that looking after themselves and crying. I hope they don’t complain when women don’t come onto them and gay men do.) (Your own flippin’ fault, innit? Go and put on some weight and burp once in a while.)
So, yes, cigarette-poncing. It’s peaking to coincide either with the crescendo of footballing events or the searing hot weather. It is seriously boiling. I am usually an enemy of shade but as I went for a 24-hour work-avoidance stroll yesterday, I did occasionally have to get the better of my stubbornness and trot to the other side of the street. Scorching. Anyway, tbf – the beautiful friend – and I met for a post-loss, consolation beer within seconds of the Italians covering themselves in glory. The atmosphere was still lovely, although I did, I admit, stick strictly to non-nefarious parts of Berlin, peopled exclusively by the type of heterosexual man described above. (Well, and women too.) I expressed, on behalf of English folk everywhere, my sincerest condolences to tbf. We drowned our sorrows the only way we know how, and were reminded that German men are quite obscenely good-looking. It was wall-to-wall totty. And determined festivation. But two beers into drowning our sorrows and we were ready to go and commune with our homosexual brethren.
The Ackerkeller – the link makes it sound much more unusual than it in fact is – is just about the only homo place I know in the centre of Berlin, and very nice it was too, with a nice selection of types. But then the poncing began. A handsome type came to poach cigarettes with unashamed brazenness. But vaguely politely. The two of us held out our different-brand cigarettes. I offered red Gauloises, all the while mentally squeezing the packet as school-friends used to do if one ever asked them for a crisp. Tbf held out Nil. (Not nothing. Nil is a brand of cigarette.) My packet was very sparsely populated indeed. Tbf’s was pulsating with Nil. Just as the suspense was about to kill all three of us, he plumped for one of mine, the sod, although perhaps I should see it as a moral victory. Maybe he secretly fancied me, although he did dash off once his thank yous were done and was never to be seen again, so perhaps I shouldn’t read too much into it. In any case, I put the incident behind me. Achieved closure. Moved on. Reinforced the thought that the good-looking, sporty, 25-year-old ponce had probably had to fight an almost irrepressible urge to kiss me… And then came the ugly mate.
I have quite the most extraordinary capacity to attract the attentions of the least desirable patrons of any homosexual establishment. I am reminded of the occasion a man in his third age struck up conversation with me in another old haunt. I struck back with gusto. His hand was on my groin before he could even finish his patently bollocks story about Klaus Wowereit – the gay mayor of Berlin – going to Berlin’s seedier gay bars incognito. So the ugly mate – drunk, leery and letchy – shuffled over. “Hast du eine Zigarette für mich?” – everyone’s least favourite chat-up line – he asked in a Spanish accent. This time I had the solo privilege of the ponce’s solicitations. I held out my depleted stocks without so much as a smile, and certainly not a word, and went back to conversing with tbf in English as loudly and bitchily as I could muster. The Spaniard lingered on, like a dog at a dinner table, with baleful eyes and what I think was meant to be a sympathy-inviting droop of the shoulders. I smoked as fast as my lungs would carry me for the rest of the evening. There was no time for conversation. It was a race against time to see if I could be the sole smoker of the remainder of my supply. I puffed for all I was worth.
Struggling for breath and making sure that my inhaler was trustily in position, I decided it was time to take leave of tbf and head home for the night. I was reasonably satisfied with a ponce-count of just 2. I drank in tbf’s beauty one last time, hugged him good night and went to make my way into the boiling hot air. “Er, er, Esuldigu, hath du noch eine Thigarette für meech?” piped up the long-since-forgotten lapdog in an attempt at seduction. I fingered one out of the packet, icily. Went upstairs, bought some more fags and walked home in a cloud of smoke along the most deserted streets I could find.