The lovely Tim was visiting, and I decided that, as he wanted to watch Dr Who, we should see it on a Big Screen. In Company. With Booze.
So, I took him to Central Station. Tim, being nice and from Sheffield, has little experience of sleazy gay bars in the Kings Cross shunting yards. WSomehow, I'd expected more... joie. More of a crowd of young, whooping gay beauties. Rather than a tired crowd of old, drunk, men, and a lesbian barmaid, watching it, enrapt. Still an old Irish man announced he "fancied the arse" of Dr Who. Which made the evening worthwhile.
But the journey there was remarkable. As we wandered across the shunting yards, we were passed by a white stretch range rover, crowded with screaming teen prom queens. Lee memorably calls these "Slagglewaggons"
They yelled something at us. I yelled something back. Their car roared away.
Tim froze. "Those lights are red," he wailed. "We're going to have to walk past them."
Not a problem.
We walked past them. "Gays! You're gays! You are gays!" The young madams roared. "Whoo-hooooo pooooooooofs! Boy kissers! You touch men! Wooooooo!"
"Whoo hoo to you!" I roared back.
"Hey gay, You gay?" One with frizzy hair and a frizzy nose screamed.
"Why yes, ma'am, that we are. Very gay. And we're off to touch big cocks right now!"
Squeals and shouted abuse. Mixed with alcopop drinking and bad miming to that milkshake song.
We walked on. Tim mortified. "How can you say that? They're going to pass us again in a minute."
"Yes. But they'd have shouted stuff at us anyway. This is more fun. Go on. Tell them they're fat or something. I can't think of anything."
"I'm just humiliated."
"Think how their driver feels."