Weird Friday of clubbing, courtesy of Adam. I had a long-standing arrangement with a group of nice North London ladies who fancied an evening of fag-haggery in Popstarz.
"Can I come?" asked Adam. "I can get you all on the guest list. Though I hardly know *anyone* there..."
It was an evening of brilliance, fun, queueing, lots of "oh, where's...?", more queueing, male models, occasional rent boys, and rescue missions by Adam.
The Music Promoter who got us in got into a fight, and was thrown out. Adam had to make peace between his friends, the bouncers, and the person who got hit.
There was also a score to settle with a rent boy who'd apparently been going round town telling people that Adam was positive, for a laugh.
There was also a large amount of flirting he had to do with some very important people. Plus some fallout from an ambiguous text message to a male model about a new sofa.
And then there were the eight teenagers with wings who all fell to their knees and worshipped Adam. Completely blocking a stairwell.
Meanwhile, I was upstairs, dancing like fools with my friends. Every now and then Adam would wander past, clear some space on the floor, smoke a cigarette, grab a drink, and then sail off.
The evening settled down in the bar. I was chatting to charming male model called James - he used to be in a boy band ("Well, I'm not saying I was a good singer, but I was in the school choir"), and his greatest joys were his dog and DIY. He was on the Atkins diet to *gain* weight, and had just done an advert for a skincare product he was allegic to.
Meanwhile, Adam was chatting to an American DJ and computer security expert who kept rubbing Adam's leg. Curious. I am suddenly the other man.
The evening ended very companionably, with the DJ sent off to an after-hours club in Vauxhall (don't buy drugs from the guy near the cigarette machine, apparently. There's a bouncer watching him), and Adam and I crawling into bed at 7.