Off the wagon

I haven't been drinking for a week. It's been marvellous. My liver has thanked me for some time off after Glasgow.

However, last night, I went out for a drink with Lee. In a gay bar. I explained that, no thank you, no vodka for me. I was proud of my resolution.

So, how come, an hour later, I was sat with four other charming gentlemen, a packet of Marlboro, and two double vodkas lined up in front of me? I believe we were singing along to the bloody awful music ("Dear R&B, What were you doing in a gay bar? Love, the Gays).

I have no excuses. I am a weak human being.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that what was once my fave gay bar (the nearly bankrupt Site), suddenly turned into the appalling Stonewalls, and has now regenerated again... back into Beef Encounter, the sleazy pick-up joint it once used to be.

Except that there was neither sleaze, nor picking up - the place was still empty. They'd even opened up the bar downstairs, packed it full of disco lights and a pretty barman... and that was even emptier.

Worse, they'd trained a TV on it, so people upstairs could see how empty downstairs was. Naturally, we respected this. In no way did we bolt downstairs and do quick snatches of Cumberland dancing on the empty dancefloor for the people upstairs. No. In no way did that happen. Oh god. No.

I left when I realised that
a) I couldn't feel my legs.
b) I was flirting with someone's boyfriend.

Saints protect us from spirits and slightly available men.