Friday, March 19, 2004
Homo For The Holidays
I've just discovered I've a whopping twenty-three days of holiday left, all of which has to be used by the end of August if I don't want to wave goodbye to them. Unfortunately, they can't be taken all at once, otherwise I'd be flying down to Rio before you could say "her name was Lola", and instead must enjoy them in bite-sized chunks. Still, with some crafty playing around with bank holidays, this works out at about one full week off for the next five months.
Friends are urging me to take some time out for sun, sea, sand, and several other things starting with "s". I need a few away-gays, they say, and a bit of relaxation might even help me get back my looks again. They've slipped a couple of brochures my way, each one bulging with images of buffed-up benders, suntans from Boot's, teeth from Photoshop, and not a Bacardi-breezered brain cell in sight. I trip over enough of this sort at chucking-out time on Old Compton Street already, thank you very much. An enforced week in that kind of company would be enough to make me consider electroconvulsive therapy as actually not such a bad idea, after all.
It’s why I hate the whole concept of the "gay" holiday and would rather die than go to Ibiza, or Mykonos, or any of the other supposedly homo hot-spots. For I'm a maturing Mary, secure in my individuality, confident in my nelliness, and I don't want, or need, to pay more pink pounds than is proper to fly out for a week in Poofters' Paradise, What's the point, as all you're going to do is bump into Wayne from last week down the pub and bitch about Jase anyway? And besides, a shag is a shag is a shag, even when it's foreign and talks with a funny accent.
(Although the thought of tripping over to Amsterdam to settle a few scores is unusually attractive, but for all of the wrong reasons. There's the bottom of a particularly murky canal with which I'd just love someone over there to get much better acquainted. And no, I am not a bitter and vengeful old queen. Well, not usually.)
Oh, bugger it, who do I think I'm kidding? It'll be Berlin, beer and boyz, won't it? I am nothing if not predictable.