Invisible Stranger


Invisible Stranger

Collecting Crises on Old Compton Street and Beyond

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Little Tinker

Currently clicking:
- bboyblues
- bitful
- blue witch
- diamondgeezer
- glitter for brains
- london calling
- naked blog
- troubled diva

Usually Playing:
- ute
- neil and chris
- peter and anna
- june
- kurt

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Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Never Gonna Be Respectable?
The first time anyone called me "Sir", I was sixteen, and the other person, a particularly sarcastic and snooty hotel employee, was no more than a couple of years older, and clearly taking the piss.

For people just don't call the likes of me "Sir". (Well, apart from one occasion in a deeply dodgy dive, and that was one of those, um, "special" requests it would have been churlish to refuse.) With my usually irreverent attitude to supposedly solemn stuff, as well as my Guardian reader's sanctimoniously middle-class egalitarian distaste for the whole kow-towing culture, together with a refusal ever to act my age – and did I mention my eternally mischievous and boyish good looks? – then "Sir"'s the last you'd think to call me. "Mate," usually. "Darling," occasionally. "Tosser," more often than is strictly necessary. But "Sir," never.

Until last night that is, when a fellow drinker in my local, half my age, called me over with an "Excuse me, please, Sir." I told myself that he spoke with a funny accent, and was, therefore, foreign and ignorant of the subtleties of the language. But deep down, that "Excuse me, please, Sir" has made me realise that it's all downhill from now on.

For, despite all my best attempts, I have finally acquired gravitas, my children. It'll only be a matter of time now before teenage crack-heads are giving up their seat on the bus for me, whippersnapper TV researchers are buying me milk-stouts in the Snug in exchange for my reminiscences of the Gay Golden Eighties, and I'm starting to smell permanently of wee.