It's a cliche that gay men don't brawl. They bitch. They may occasionally shove. But no - no fighting.
So, anyway, Adam (aka Not-Boyfriend) got into a fight with a Swedish dancer. Over who danced better.
Seriously. Adam cuts a mean rug, and proved it last night by performing a spectacular drunken number in the Leinster which included being lifted across the bar, ballet style, by a visiting South African boxer.
There was laughter and applause. And then this cute young Swede idled over. Adam raised an eyebrow, graciously ready to accept flattery and a blow job. Instead of which the Swede said "I've studied at the academy of performing arts, and you should just sit down."
The fur flew.
SWEDE: I'm sure you were pretty once.
ADAM: Your hair's receding faster than Will Young's.
SWEDE: You should moisturise better.
ADAM: You've got more attitude than the Cheeky Girls and less talent.
SWEDE: People with your skin shouldn't smoke.
ADAM: That tattoo looks better on other people.
SWEDE: Some people shouldn't dye their hair blonde.
ADAM: Those clothes are ugly.
Roughly at this point the Swede made a lunge for Adam, and missed, while Adam tapped fag ash on the Swede's hair... and then it was like something from Crouching Tiger, Screaming Poof.
I dragged Adam one way, while an internet tycoon held the Swede back.
Adam struggled through the door, screaming, "I'm waiting for you outside and you'll get more than a slap."
The Swede was yelling back, "I'm a VIP here! You can't treat me like this."
I dragged Adam as far as a laundrette, his arms Scrappy-Dooing away while he shouted "I'm waiting for you! One punch is all it'll take, you bald Swedish Mary!"
As I stuffed him into a cab, he turned back to the pub and roared, "You'll never guest list in this town again, bitch."
I like the gay scene. I could watch it for hours.