Thursday evening, last week: I’m standing at the bar buying my round in a not-gay pub in Brighton when a man I’ve never met before starts talking to me in a way I am reluctant to categorise as “forward” until he moves in close, starts rubbing his hand up and down my chest, and tells me I’m “really really sexy”.
“And you’re a flirt,” I point out, smiling heterosexually.
“Noooooo!” he says, laughing ironically.
I’m almost tempted to give him a consolatory peck on the cheek, so grateful am I for some sexual interest from anyone of any persuasion, but I don’t.
Thing is, since I moved here, my gaydar has improved significantly and I’d say, from my quick browse of the videos of Ted Haggard that Andrew Sullivan has been hosting since this scandal blew up, that Haggard comes across like the kind of guy who would enjoy a massage from another guy, although in every other respect he seems deeply unpleasant.
Anyway, James, as his name turned out to be from our subsequent conversation, appears at our table at the end of the evening to say that the black bag he came in with has disappeared. Given that I have witnessed a lot of coat confusion in the packed venue this need not have been an incident of theft. So if you were in the Earth and Stars on Windsor Street on Thursday evening and picked up the wrong black bag then do get in touch with the pub because they’ve got his number—even if I haven’t.