Gareth
On my best mate's stag do in Brum early this year, I had the onerous task of ending up with Gareth. Now, I'd known Gareth for years; he was a friend of the family and was going to be the brother-in-law of my best mate. Gareth wasn't blessed with an abundance of intelligence, the epithet 'Dippy' being accorded to him, strangely enough not due to his simpleton ways, but rather when he was playing football with my poor, departed brother, his reponse to the question as to what he'd had for breakfast that morning was 'dippy eggs'.

So I found myself in a taxi with Gareth on the way back to the premier hotspot of Broad Street. The main body of the party had gone on to the notorious nightspot of The Rocket Club, and Gareth, the naive thing he was, didn't fancy going along - it wasn't his kind of thing. I wasn't too fussed either. I was quite happy to forego forking out £4 for a bottle of lager and £20 every time I wanted to have a flash of Eastern European norks and growler and Gareth knew a pub just off the main thoroughfare. I'd had plenty, but wasn't averse to one or two more.

I was feeling a frisson of embarrassment as Gareth entertained the taxi driver with his latest trick. Being an Arsenal Football Club fan, and slightly peeved by Togolese striker Emmanuel Adebayor's recent defection to Manchester City, Gareth was bellowing at the top of his lungs:

"Adebayor, Adebayor!
Your Dad washes elephants
And your mother is a whore!"

Wishing the seat to swallow me up with the thought of accompanying this faux-racist for another hour, I decided that I'd have to use my Henry Kissinger-like diplomacy skills if Gareth decided to converse with the general public in the next sixty minutes or so.

So it was that we were deposited at The Tap and Spile public house. The taxi driver, genuinely amused by Gareth's offensive terrace chant, was paid off by myself, and wished us a nice evening. "Thanks. I'm gonna need it" I muttered under my breath as I handed him the requisite remuneration.

So we entered The Tap and Gareth hit upon the genius idea of splitting up in order to get served quicker, the pub having two bars - one at ground level and one below ground. He marched into the main bar and I trudged downstairs. We’d meet up with four pints in total – good thinking that man. Feeling a stirring in my bladder, I decided to nip into the Gents' to strain my greens.

Now, The Tap had the novel idea of employing an African guy to sit in the Gents' all night and dispense soap to visitors 'post-urination'. There was also hand tissue proferred for those blissfully unaware of the hand dryer affixed to the nearby wall as well as an array of cheap aftershaves and colognes for those who had deigned to leave the house without their favourite 'scent'. A guy, obviously a local, was chatting to the African attendant.

So, anyway, I did what I needed to do and washed up, giving in to The Tap's suspicions that I was incapable of doing it myself. The African guy and the local were still chatting, so I joined in the amiable banter. As I finished my ablutions and given the attendant a pound(!) for his troubles, I found myself walking out of the conveniences, in conversation with the local guy. As we entered the downstairs bar, the conversation stopped and I found him looking at me. But not just looking at me..."looking" at me.

"Do you want to come to a party later?" he said in a slight Brummy lilt. *Gulp* Almost quick as a flash I held my hand up, pointed and said "I'm with him". Now, as I was coming out of the little boys' room I'd espied Gareth sitting at a table with two full pints of lager, his head bowed and swaying. I was pointing at Gareth. As I realised the connation of what I'd just said, I remained in position, my mouth agape with the horrid realisation of what I had insinuated. "OK" he replied with a little, knowing smile and slowly walked off.*

As I stood in a freakish tableau of horror, surprise and stupidity he walked up the stairs and looked back at me with one of "those" looks. Eventually, I lowered my arm, closed my mouth and went over to where Gareth was slowly dribbling away in his drunken state. Within ten minutes he had managed to knock three of our four pints over and we left the pub.

*I wasn’t sure if he was smiling at the fact that I wasn’t gay and that he’d thought I was, or if he thought I was gay and was laughing at my *ahem* ‘taste’...
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Thu 10 Dec 2009, 17:27, Reply)