Hospital Visit

Of course, it's not funny visiting someone in hospital. Especially when they've had their jaw broken by a mindless thug.

But then again, we were three gays in a car, and Shakespeare's Sister were on the stereo. I defy you not to be doing impressions, even in a hospital car park.

When we found Matt (we'll call him Matt - all Cardiff Gays are called Matt), he looked surprisingly fine. I think we'd bet on him wearing a wire cage or something horrible. Instead he looked a bit lumpy. And overjoyed/terrified to see us.

You see, on the same day Matt had had his jaw dislocated, he'd very nearly dislocated something else entirely through enviable bedroom antics involving two bisexuals and probably quite a lot of pillows. Yes, Matt had taken two bottles into the shower.

As with most things gays describe as "fabulous", our reaction was a mixture of incomprehension, envy and wincing fear. Matt just looked bloody smug, and was the willing butt of cheap puns all evening (see?).

Unfortunately, little did he imagine that the next day he'd be laid up in a hospital bed, barely able to speak and confronted by a cackling hoard.

We'd honestly tried to be sombre, serious and grave. A hospital is after all, a terrible place.

But, as we entered the ward we saw the sign: "No more than two visitors to each bed."

[to be continued]