#final leg

So, anyway, back to the ongoing saga of airport dramas in my travel tales.
Yes I was ready to go home.
But @unfriendly_check_in_bitch had dampened that spirit.
So I was already anticipating the usual disaster with airport security. 
You know.
I've said it before.
I'll say it again.
Somehow the single, swarthy traveler has terrorist written all over him.
Despite also having raving queer written all over him.
In hot fucking pink.


So I was not surprised when large turbaned security officer appeared beside me before my hand luggage had even re-appeared through the x-ray machine.
I was standing there shoeless and beltless.
And also watchless.
I had been asked to take off my watch.
This has never happened before.
And on the second leg of the outward bound flight I had seen a young lady screaming that her watch had gone missing in the x-ray machine.
Those things are like washing machines and dryers with socks.
Great that airport security is run by a band of jewellery thieves.
So I was presumably looking very anxious.
And anxiety is not a great thing to present at an airport.
Attracts exactly the wrong type.
Security.
"You wanna do a random explosives test, don't you?"
"Yes, sir".
"It's usually me" piped in a nearby woman.
"No. No. It's always me. Every time I have traveled abroad alone since the age of 18 I have had this done.
And I am now 36.
That's half my life!
The only time it doesn't happen is when I'm traveling with my blond family members.
I clearly fit a profile!"
"Sir, we don't profile passengers.
That would be prejudicial"
"Yes, yes, you do. Otherwise I wouldn't get stopped EVERYWHERE I GO!"
"Sir, I'm looking you in the eye and I'm telling you we don't"
"And I'm looking you in the eye and telling you I don't believe you. 
I'm also looking you in the eye and telling you I'm gay. And I value my goods and chattels in that hold way too much to sacrifice them for any cause. No matter how worthy that cause may be!"
Again I saw that same look that I'd seen in the eyes of @unfriendly_check_in_bitch.
He thinks I'm psychotic.
He waved his wand over me and my carry-on, and bid me farewell with wishes for a safe flight home.
"Go fuck yourself" I responded.


The remainder of the first leg of the homeward journey was, thank Christ, largely uneventful and spent in a temazapan and red wine haze.
The second leg however, got off to an ominous start.
Again I'd booked an aisle seat.
Only this time it was on that central bank of 4 seats.
And again a fellow passenger asked me if I'd change seats with her.
Big sigh and scowl from me.
She was an old lady.
"I'm diabetic she said. And I need to go to the toilet a lot."
Oh for fuck's sake.
I changed seats with her.
Even helped the old invalid put her carry-on in the overhead locker.
I too, go to the toilet a lot when I fly.
Not because I'm diabetic.
Or nervous.
Or incontinent.
But because I drink.
A lot.
Booze to get me out of it.
And water to keep my fluids up.
But they just come out.
I kept having to clamber over the old bitch.
Who didn't go to the toilet once.
Not one fucking time.
In 14 fucking hours.
What is she?
A diabetic fucking camel?!?
About 2 hours in and I was seriously doubting her diabetic story, and thought if she doesn't get a special meal I'm gonna insist she swap back.
She did get it.
So if you areally are a diabetic and need to go to the fucking toilet all the time why the fuck didn't you book an aisle seat you dumb cunt?
And why the fuck are you not going to the toilet?
She was also fat.
No wonder she's diabetic.
Which made clambering over her even more arduous.


I was so relieved to finally land.
Relief was temporary.
Got through customs OK.
It was afterwards that the challenge lay.
Even while waiting for my luggage at the carousel a sniffer dog came bounding up to me going over my hand luggage like a junkie who can smell a fix.
Guard looked at my declaration and told me to come see him when I had collected my luggage.
Here we fucking go.
I was delirious with tiredness.
As well as booze and prescription drugs.
And in no mood to indulge some officious little cunt in a uniform.
So when I found him I just opened all may bags.
"Look, no drugs."
"But a lot of clothes, sir."
"Yes.I enjoy my fashion and I've just been to the UK where it's really cheap and our dollar is really strong. So I bought quite a bit."
"Are you in the fashion industry, sir?"
"No."
"How long were you in the UK, sir?"
"A week."
"You have all that luggage for a week??"
"Yep."
"Looks like a commercial quantity to me".
Oh Jesus fucking Christ.
How many more times was I gonna have to declare my homosexuality as a defence against a crime?
"Listen, buddy. I'm a poofter. With a chronic shopping addiction. All that this 'commercial' quantity of clothing represents is one faggot's week's worth of cold climate options!"
"And what about all these summer clothes then... 'buddy'?"
"They're for my next holiday. In Bali. In 2 weeks. Duh."
Either this convinced him.
Or he decided it was all too hard.
So he waved me off.


Exiting the airport I jumped straight in a cab.
Things were looking up.
I didn't even think, and sat in the front.
Cabbie asked me about my trip.
And I told him.
Everything.
Leaning back with my eyes closed I shared the details of my entire trip with a complete stranger.
Who put his hand on my knee about half way home.
I didn't even flinch.
Just thought, yep, I'm back in Sydney.
He kept it there the whole way.
And took it upon himself to take a a little detour down the back streets of Woolloomooloo.
Where he gave me a hand-job.
And insisted I only pay half the fare.

So 31 hours after leaving the flat in London I stumbled into my apartment. 
Now feeling relieved on a couple of scores.
But shit, that holiday was exhausting.
Can't wait to go to Bali.
Look out Schapelle, here I come.


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#climax

"I need a root" I proclaimed, as I wondered what to do with this almost-natural high, wandering around after the show.
"I think you do too, darl" concurred @russian_princess.
"There was that club we saw just around the corner from the fabulous restaurant that had the hot Brazilian waiters.
Maybe they go there after work", she suggested.
"Good thinking, let's go!"
"I'll leave you to it, darl".
I was secretly relieved.
Much in all as I love her.
And we were having so much fun together.
But going to a gay bar or club as a single gay man with a glamorous woman in tow can be an impediment to picking up.
And having a glamorous, stylish, attractive friend right there to see you in action means you really have to lift your standards.
Much easier to go it alone.
So I did.
After bundling her and our shopping bags into a black cab I made my way to the club.
Apparently called The Shadowlounge.
Turned out to be a bit of an institution.
It was a Monday night.
Felt just like the Shift.
On a weekend.
Fairly empty.
And no sign of hot Brazilian wait staff.
Actually no sign of anybody hot.
The only person of any vague interest was this young dark guy.
He looked about 12.
And he was looking at me sheepishly.
And smiling awkwardly.
Hands in pockets, he was clearly having a bit of a fiddle. 
Fuck it.
He'll do.
So I bought him a drink.
Within about 3 minutes we were pashing.
And I was copping a feel.
At the bar.
"Can't believe you've got your 'and on me knob" he said.
So I took him to a booth.
And fed him leftover coke.
Then practically dry-humped him.
He suggested we leave.
Which I agreed was a good idea.
I asked him where he lived.
"'Ammersmiff".
A bit far, but not too bad, and I didn't wanna take him to the flat where @russian_princess was sleeping.
"OK, let's go".
"We 'ave to go to yours" he said. "I live wiff me moom and dud."
Shit.
"How old are you?"
"18".
Shit.
"How old are you mister?"
"How old do you think?"
I should never do that.
"Abou' for'y".
Go fuck yourself.
"Not quite" I stammered.
And followed with: "let's go before I change my mind ya little shit!"
He just laughed.
Our journey home was by rickshaw.
Yes.
Rickshaw.
A controversial choice in London, but one that is readily available.
Presumably for tourists.
It cost 40 pounds.
A cab would have been 15.
And we made out the whole way home.
I'll remind you that there's not a lot of coverage on a rickshaw.
But I didn't care.
By the time we got to the flat belts were undone.
Hands were down jeans.
And our Bangladeshi driver was looking most agitated.
I gave him a 5 pound tip and farewelled him with a wink.
He cycled away at top speed.
We tiptoed into the flat.
Trying desperately not to wake @russian_princess, as I didn't want her to see my almost underaged quarry.
But she woke.
And came out of her room.
Introduced herself.
And made a round of fucking drinks.
Fucking European hospitality.
By the time I actually made it to the bedroom, @young_pick_up was practically passing out.
I briefly considered having my wicked way with him in his semi-comatose state.
But decided I'd gone long enough without sex, that I could wait until I could do it with someone who was awake.
It's hard enough sleeping in a strange bed.
Let alone with a stranger.
I barely slept at all.
And he did that young thing.
Slept in for fucking hours.
I just lay there patiently.
With my morning wood.
He eventually awoke.
And looked at me with surprise: "Oo the fuck are you?"
I reminded him of our meeting.
He had no recollection.
I didn't really care.
I made a move anyway.
"'Ere, back off, mate. I go'a girlfriend."
And with that he was off.


I was ready to go home too.




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#high and dry

Clearly there was more activity before I set sail for home.

And clearly I flew.

And not just home.

Through the entire week.

Thanks to @posh_bombshell and her Magic Pudding-like supply of coke.

Which she generously shared with @russian_princess and me.

Every day.

And every night.

I didn't ask where she got it.

And I didn't wanna know.

Although I did maintain an anxious lookout for gangsters in possible search of payment.
Everywhere we went.

We sniffed our way around Chelsea and Soho.

Even around the East End.

Which I know is supposed to be where all the cool is right now.

To us it just felt dangerous.

Luckily we were high.

And pissed.

Or else we may have been genuinely frightened.

Acknowledging our alcoholic tendencies and that they may need to be addressed we signed up for a program.

The 39 Steps.

We felt 12 just might not be enough.

Turns out it was a show.

As in a play.

A slapstick murder mystery.

We were actually relieved.
And @russian_princess and I were also relieved to not be sitting too close to the front when we saw a stage version of Singing in the Rain.
Now, I'm going to say something controversial here, and let you know that I am in fact not a show queen.
Normally I can't stand a musical.
They leave me cold.
But there's something about being in one of the centres of the world for performing arts that had me ignoring my prejudices.
So we went.
And it was fantastic.
When it came time for the rain the stage miraculously transformed into this huge shallow tray and rain came down from the ceiling.
And with all the exuberant tap dancing came great sprays of water washing over the first few rows of the audience.
There were shrieks of both delight and despair.
Some people in the front row even put up their umbrellas.
I didn't realise they'd all been given plastic ponchos.
Because all I could think was: I'd be super shitty right now if I was down there and I was wearing silk, suede or velvet.
Despite this concern we did leave the show on an absolute high.
It was almost natural.
The first of the whole holiday.
And then in struck me.
I had done everything I wanted on this holiday.
Eating.
Drinking.
Shopping.
Drugs.
And a smattering of culture.
Except...
Sex.








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#stuffed

I did have surprising success with my search for citrus.
Managed to get a separate outfit for every day of my week long Balinese getaway.
Sticking to the citrus theme in at least one garment per ensemble.
No mean feat in the UK.
This did, however, pose some problems when I left the country.
Not the colour of the garments.
Clearly there is no embargo on the exportation of a fruity shade.
But the weight of that summer fabric sure does add up.
Etihad economy class allows for 23kg of check in.
And 7 kg of carry on.
After queuing for an hour to check in I schlepped my luggage onto the scales.
And was told by extremely unfriendly ground staff member that I would have to re-pack.
Obviously she had no appreciation of fashion.
I was wishing I'd gone to the faggot at the next counter. 
"You'll have to go over to the re-packing area and put some of your clothes into your carry-on."
Big sigh.
Big flick of imaginary hair.
"Well I'm not queuing again".
"I'm afraid you'll have to".
Another big sigh.
Another big flick of imaginary hair.
"Can't I just pay?"
"Yes, you can pay."
"How much?"
"29 pounds per kilo."
Biggest sigh yet.
And you should have seen the flick of imaginary hair.
"Well I'll re-pack. But I'm not queuing again".
"I'm afraid you will have to."
"Well I'm not moving then."
Her to turn to sigh.
And flick her very real hair.
Was quite impressive.
Almost worked as I almost relented.
But I stood my ground.
And in the end she relented.
So I stomped away and re-packed.
Pushed to the front of the queue.
To be then told that now my carry-on was too heavy.
"How much carry-on am I allowed?"
"7kg".
"And how much do I have?"
"10kg. You'll need to put 3 kg back into your check-in."
Fuck.
"What about all the fat people?" I asked.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"The fat people. I mean look at that heifer over there." 
I gestured towards a woman who looked like she'd gotten lost on the way to the Jerry Springer show.
"She's gotta weigh at least 100kg. I only weigh 65!"
"It has nothing to do with fatness, sir".
"Well I think it does. You should just give people a total weight allowance for the person and their luggage. I take up so much less space than her. You should charge fat people for being overweight!"
At this point the check-in woman started to look a little scared.
I saw in her eyes the very second she had decided that I must be psychotic.
She just backed right down.
And let me re-pack at the counter.
Which I did.
In silence.
But with a scowl.
Weight evenly distributed by the end.
Me and my luggage were separated.
I always feel a little paing of guilt at the thought of my poor clothes having to travel alone in the dark.
But my sorrow for myself at having undergone this ordeal overrode all concerns for my temporarily abandoned fashion.
So again I stomped away haughtily.
Without a word.
Stopping only to cast menacing look at @overweight_passenger.


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#manic

Strangely @hot_ginger_celebrity_chef didn't call me.
Ever.
I mean, he is super busy.
But then so was I.
I probably wouldn't have had time to catch up with him anyway.
Sadly the only thing even vaguely resembling action didn't happen until my second last night, which I'll get to later...
By this point @posh_bombshell had long since left for an even more glamorous leg of her holiday - a week on a yacht at the French Riviera.
I doubt it left the marina, but it sounded intrepid to me.
In her place as my traveling companion was @russian_princess.
She is a lifelong friend, born in Sydney of Russian parents.
She now lives in Zurich.
And is in the process of leaving her @swiss_banker_husband.
She wanted a little trip to take her mind off things, so came to share the flat I had.
We would have made a great musical together.
The Homosexual and the Divorcee.
Although, I suppose only if eating, drinking and shopping are the stuff of musicals.
Perhaps they are when you consider the level of mania brought to these activities by a sleep-deprived, prescription-drug-addled faggot and a 35 year old woman on the brink of a nervous breakdown.
My own mania was further driven by the pressing urgency of needing a wardrobe for an altogether different holiday.
Bali.
Departing 2 weeks after I return to Sydney from the UK.
For @cute_boy's birthday.
And there is a theme.
Citrus.
Tropical.
Fruity.
Totally appropriate for the locale.
And impossible to buy for in a Sydney winter.
And I cannot feel settled until I have all outfit bases covered for any upcoming event.
And factoring in that I am a mood dresser, I always require 3 options for each event.
So I am an Australian who spent the vast majority of my London sojourn shopping for a Bali holiday wardrobe. 
The irony of this is not lost on even me, tragic fashionista that I am.


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#if you can't stand the heat

So, coked off our eyeballs, @posh_bombshell and I burst into Tom's Kitchen like a pair of wannabe celebrities in search of a liquid lunch. It was not long after noon, but the restaurant was already filling up.

"Do you have a booking? We are quite busy today, but I'm sure we can squeeze the two of you in."

"We're just going to go to the bar, darling".

We breezed past, sunglasses still on, and perched ourselves on barstools.

"A Pimms, a gin & tonic and a bottle of Pinot Grigio, please darling" commanded @posh_bombshell to our very handsome waiter.

"Here, take this" she whispered to me, removing the sachet from that Prada clutch, and pressing it into my sweaty palm.

"Loos are that way" she gestured.

So off I popped.

I returned to our ambitious drinks order, sniffing conspicuously, attracting the attention of several waitstaff, as well as that of at least one patron.

As soon as I'd seated myself, @posh_bombshell was off too, snatching back that sachet, and heading loo-way.

She too returned sniffing conspicuously, also attracting some sideways glances.

Although as the effects of the coke kicked in, and mixed with the booze, we became oblivious.

To the staff.

To the patrons.

To everything...

Was it three hours later?

Or three minutes?

The cocktails were long gone.

We were almost done with our second bottle of wine.

And the coke was almost finished.

With sunglasses still on, we were thinking we were fabulous.

Quite sure that everybody in the restaurant wanted to be with us.

Be just like us.

Be us.

And then I saw him.

The man himself.

The Tom of Tom's Kitchen.

Incredibly handsome.

Ginger.

I have only recently become a ginger fan.

And I see that they are quite fashionable.

And as you know, I'm always on trend.

I do wonder where it started.

Perhaps with Prince Harry?

Hmmm, maybe, although he's a little young for me.

But Tom.

Now Tom was right up my demographic.

And he can cook.

And he was right there.

Looking me in the eye.

Even though I still had my sunglasses on.

And I felt sure we had a connection.

So I smiled.

And sniffed.

He shook his head, and looked away.

Must be shy.

Or busy.

Too professional to fraternise with patrons.

I like that in a man.

We definitely had a connection.

We polished off the bottle of wine.

And ordered a third.

Hopping off her barstool @posh_bombshell headed to the loo, sachet in hand. 

And then he approached me.

Tom.

Taking the bottle from the barman as he did.

He walked over slowly.

Smiling slightly.

He leaned over the bar towards me.

"Oh my God, he's gonna kiss me" I said to myself.

I leaned in.

Eyes closed under my sunnies.

Lips parted in readiness.

He grabbed me by my shirt collar.

(I love a man who takes charge.)

And whispered in my ear:

"If you and that slapper don't stop doing coke in my fuckin' bathroom and get the fuck outta my restaurant, I'm callin' the cops! Got it??"

I started backwards in shock, knocking a tray of drinks from the arms of a passing waiter.

I fumbled in my wallet to settle the bill, and he waved me off, like a king dismissing an irritating jester.

@posh_bombshell returned with a loud "Darling?", which was met with a finger pointed towards the door and a very terse: "OUT! NOW!"

I steered her quickly towards the door, and turned back, pressing my card against the bar, and lowering my sunnies to wink at him, and said: 

"Call me, maybe."

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#cool

The first stop in my totally climate inappropriate garb was the St Martin Lane's Hotel in Covent Garden to meet @posh_bombshell, fellow Australian also visiting London, whose digs contrasted quite starkly with mine.
At this point I need to point out that my accommodation, although cute, was a very humble rental apartment in a former housing commission district in Westminster. A strangely quiet area, peopled by the very poor, the very posh and the political.
I was an alien all fronts.
But the best dressed by far.
The St Martin's Lane Hotel is currently the zhuzzhiest hotel in London.
Designed by Philippe Starck, the hotel lives up to the designer's name.
But it did provide a cool sanctuary from the buzz and the heat outside.
It is right in the heart of the West End.
And @posh_bombshell, although Aussie, is the ultimate West End Girl.
Tall, blonde and statuesque.
Swathed in designer fabrics.
And dripping in Hermes jewellery.
The only woman I know who manages to glide in 6 inch Louboutins.
She bent down gracefully to double kiss me.
Greeted me with: "Shall we do a line of coke, darling?"
It was 11 30am.
"Sure, doll".
That'll get the temazapan out of my system.
So we took the soundless elevator back to her microscopic although perfectly appointed room.
"Shit, doll" I said, "You're paying a lot per cubic metre for this!"
"I know, darling" she responded "but I'm spending a lot of time here during the day recovering, so the pound per hour rate is actually very good! And there's lots of stainless steel. Which saves us from having to do it off the loo."
This as she's laying out lines the length and thickness of her pendulous earrings.
"A most important detail" I concur. Snort.
"Good stuff isn't it, darling?" Snort.
"Amaaaazing, doll." Snort. "Where'd you score this so soon after getting here?"
"Some Russian guy in the bar." Snort. "Wanted to shag me of course, darling. But I wouldn't let him. I'm not sure if he realised I took his drugs".
At this point I suffered a mild panic attack at the thought of a posse of Russian gangsters bursting into the room.
Killing me.
Assaulting her.
And taking the coke back.


Possibly drug-induced.
Not helped by having these thoughts in a claustrophobic space.
I suggest we leave.
"Lunch?" asks @posh_bombshell.
"I'm not really hungry anymore, doll."
"We don't actually have to eat, darling. But I know this gorgeous little place in Chelsea. Apparently Wills and Kate used to go there all the time! Maybe we can find ourselves a couple of princes as well."
So with images of royal weddings in our heads, and a bag of coke in @posh_bombshell's Prada clutch, we set sail for Tom's Kitchen.






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#hot

With technology failing all around me, and jet lag dragging me into the quicksand of hungry sleep I crawled back to the apartment, and passed out.
Fully clothed.
On top of the bedcover.
I awoke with that feeling of not knowing where I was.
Or in fact who I was.
As soon as both these things revealed themselves I was wide awake.
It was 1am.
And I was starving.
And despite knowing full well that I had not bought provisions I stumbled to the kitchen in search of food. 
Managed to uncover a bag of nuts, a bag of twisties and two beers left by previous occupants.
Despite any misgivings about use by dates or broken seals, I scoffed the lot.
With a double temazapan chaser.
Out til 10am.
Finally ready to start my holiday.
49 hours after leaving home.
Of course the burning question on my lips at this time was "what will I wear today?"
Travel may provide people with opportunities to expand their horizons and immerse themselves in foreign cultures.
For me it provides an opportunity to bring out all my most fabulous fashion that I don't get to wear very often at home.
I love that in England everybody seems to dress smartly.
No matter what they're doing.
Of course the cooler weather allows for this.
This same weather also has all English people apologising for it, as soon as they discover you're Australian.
"Oh", I quip, "when you live in Australia, you don't come to England for the weather".
While secretly thinking, I love this weather. 
It's exactly the reason I come here.
To ship out all my couture.
And a Brit I met in Sydney before leaving me informed that London was having an especially cool summer.


Perfect.


So I took:


2 overcoats.
4 blazers.
3 casual jackets.
16 shirts.
5 sweaters.
6 scarves.
3 pairs of jeans.
2 pairs of pants.
2 pairs of loafers.
2 pairs of lace-up shoes.
2 pairs of boots.
4 pairs of trainers.


I was there for a week.
And my luggage had tipped the scales by half a kilo, which was sorted with a quick bat of the eyelashes at @young_cute_check_in_guy.


I was prepared for every event.


Except a sudden rise in temperature.


It was fuckin' hot.


And when I looked out my window I saw people in shorts and t-shirts, neither of which had made their way into my suitcase.


But I managed to summon my long dead but forever glamorous grandmother's three most resonating maxims:


1. beauty knows no pain
2. never let the truth get in the way of a good story
3. never let the weather get in the way of a great outfit


And thus inspired set forth into the English summer in my winter woollies.




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