Mess orbits around Mark. He's suave, he's charming, and, apparently, terribly influential in the world of TV. He's so powerful, he's dismissive about the presenter of PopWorld. Wow.
But, somehow (and I know this from bitter experience), despite Mark's urbane sophistication, there's an aura of danger to him. aka: Catnip for Gays.
What began as a civilised little drink and supper at m'club suddenly turned sour when Mark's ex boyfriend turned up. They parted amicably. So amicably you could hear a pin drop.
Mark's ex was drunk and in an odd mood ("Put that down to the fact he took a twenty minute detour - sniff. sniff." said Mark). He sat in a leather chair, muttering "I'm bored and want to dance and see naked men." Or being rude to waitresses. Or telling us about the (once) A-List Restaurant he Maitre'Ds ("God darlings, Trisha is sooo demanding.").
Ben had brought along with him a charming man called Leigh, who, it turned out, was a media journalist, and wanted to sleep with neither Mark nor me ("Pity, I needed some good coverage of my Autumn line-up", sighed Mark).
Mark suddenly left us to go glad-handing around the batch of Independent TV Producers he'd spotted. He's very good at that - he does the easy smile; handshake; elbow clench and overall personal warmth thing well.
Leigh nipped off to the loo, at which point, the Ben suddenly materialised next to me. "You smell great," he said.
"Let's shock everyone here and do something really, really wild," he murmured, leaning forward, his hand spreading across my leg, his lips opening like a shark's.
"Good idea. Let's order peppermint teas. Waitress?"
Things got worse. Out drinking with three men, and the one I *don't* fancy is all over me like cheap moisturiser.
We left the nice club, in search of a new gay place that Ben had heard of. It's apparently divine and very "intimate". It's called "Too, Too Much". We got there, and discovered it's Closed On Mondays.
Ben threw his hands in the air and spat, "This place is over! It's dead! Finished already."
Then he uttered the words that kill 99 per cent of evenings stone dead. "Let's go to the Shadow Lounge..."
There were bored men with big arms who were there purely to go home unhappy. There were foolish drinks at fools' prices. There was drag. In a hoop skirt.
[I now hand you over to another blog of the same evening]