So, we got on the train carriage.
"Look! Gays!" yelled a voice. Then a plastic bottle hit someone in a face.
Yes, this is South London. Where small children run riot on trains because Ritalin hasn't made it over the border.
There were three of them, the oldest barely twelve. There were eight of us. When they weren't bouncing up and down and smashing seats, they were screaming names at us. Which was quite unfair - our party actually included two straight men and a nicely dressed lady. Perhaps they thought we were gay simply because we weren't wearing tracksuits.
In a way, it was faintly harmless. It was doubtful they'd actually manage to tear a seat out of the floor and hurl it at us, so they stuck with names they'd picked up from that delightful Afro-Carribbean music I've heard to much about.
"Battyboys! Battyboys!" they screamed.
"We prefer gay!" we yelled back.
"Har! Har! You suck cock!" they shouted.
"Well, yes." We were a bit bored now.
"You fuck the arse too!" they roared.
"You got AIDS!"
"No. But we do have iPods."
That was about all they knew about the gays. So they just jeered "Battyboy" and threw empty cups in our direction.
Richard, who I believe was Mr Gay Muscle 2003, wanted to do something about it. But luckily, John was a lawyer. "You can't actually touch them."
But we could criticise their clothes.
"Oi! Battyboy!" they'd scream.
"Oi! Matalan!" we'd yell back.
Eventually they got off the train, trying to spit through the window.
"Write to us from prison!" we waved. Where no doubt they'll learn all sorts of jolly facts about anal sex. Hopefully at the end of a razor.