Queer mindset from a drunken grubby guy.


So I am in my home town of Tiverton waiting for an old school friend outside of Goldies’ Bar at 7.30pm when an obviously drunk, grubby looking fella stumbles out of the door to smoke his roll up. He took one look at me and asked ‘What I had come as’ (wearing a tweed jacket – but not the loudest) I informed the chap that I had come as me, he replied that I shouldn’t come dressed in something he wouldn’t be seen dead in. I wasn’t too keen on his odorous beer-strained t-shirt either but sadly didn’t mention it. He then informed me I smelt like a whore’s handbag.

I suppose at that point it was a bit foolish to get my pink phone out. This sent him into a weird sort of verbal spasm so I put him out of his misery or rather mischievously  wanted to fuel his rage by saying ‘I’m meeting my boyfriend’. I then spent the next 10 minutes having to shake his clammy hand, being told he didn’t mind queers, at least he knew I wouldn’t hit on his girlfriend (amazingly he had a lady with him) and I was OK as long as I didn’t try it on with him. (He was safe I like my humans washed) What an insight.

Sadly he didn’t even spot my friend when she arrived. You don’t half get some patience practice in Tiverton. (Though in the Devonshire locals’ defence his accent wasn’t aaaaarhs!)

(c) Simon Nott

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