Tuesday, June 21, 2005

The Chav Who Loved Me

Sadly, like Luis Vuitton, most chavs are fakes. They look right, they smoke right, and frequently, they smell right... but get talking to them and you're in for a surprise.

So it was with Saturday's chav. When I eventually got round to asking his name (sometime on the way home), he announced it was "Liam."

I smelled a rat. "What do you do for a living?"

"Yer moite, I'm uh - uh -" and then the accent dropped, "well, a librarian actually."

He even works in Highgate. His claims to live in Essex turned out to be "Essex Road, Islington".

But, he turned out to be terribly sweet, and quiet, and desperately keen that I visit him in the library. "Thursdays are good - we're open late, it's nice and quiet - but you'll need two proofs of address."

He was on the run from his boyfriend that night. Turns out they'd not had sex for three years. Which certainly puts all my problems into perspective. Hence him dressing up and going out for the evening with the boyfriend. The plan had been to make his boyfriend jealous. Instead of which, his boyfriend had met someone and buggered off, leaving Liam alone with half a pack of royals and a deflated expression.

Anyway, as dawn was breaking I walked him some of the way home. We held hands and talked whistfully about the fraily of human nature and the myriad ways of the heard. Then we had sex on a council estate patio.

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