I’ve always been a moderate to heavy drinker ever since I realised that resistance was futile and, to be frank, a little un-British. I feel it’s my duty as an unattached, no responsibilities, solipsistic, nihilist Englishman to drink myself, if not into an early grave, then at least into a reasonable state of crapulous insousiance.

Bird was holding a leaving party at the pub where she’s been working for the past few months – she’s now in India on some endless henodistic Grand Tour. Obviously I was invited and decided to show my face for a couple of hours.
Well, after only my seventh, or possibly tenth, whiskey and Coke all us hardcore drinkers legged it to another pub where extended lisencing hours were promised. More whiskey and Coke, cigarettes and the suggestion of something stronger – which never materialised – and I was carrying one hell of a buzz, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
At about one in the morning I remember a man asking to look at my nipples for the sake of comparison – to what, I don’t remember. Then he wanted to see my belly for similar reasons. After a brief examination he drifted back to the dance floor with what I hope was a look of satisfaction on his face. I don’t mind flirting with men – it’s more fun than doing it with women.
I was stood chatting with Nikki at about two when he sidled up behind me and said, “Let’s see your crack.” And with that he pulled back my waistband and put his hand down the back of my trousers: “Not bad.” He goes off again. By three-thirty we were all outside saying our goodbyes when he (his name was Wood!) was insisting that he perform acts upon my person which I know to be illegal in several of your lesser-enlightened states. Of course, I politely declined his offer, but when he asked for a kiss I capitulated so as not to appear too much of a prick-tease. All I can say is that, however naively, I wasn’t expecting tounges, but possibly because of all that whiskey I didn’t really resist.
Now, for your information, I didn’t much rate his technique: all tounge and very little lip action – not my style. So my very first man-on-man kiss was a bit of a disappointment, though I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I cycled home.
I saw Martin on the following Monday and told him the gory details. “That’s nothing,” he said, “I’ve had… one, two, three man-snogs.” Counting them out on the fingers of his right hand for eveyone in the coffee shop to see.