Thursday, March 09, 2006
...coming out, sexual assault and christianity...
Have been thinking about how to write this entry for a while. It may just be the trippiest chain of events that I've ever experienced, and happened as a result of going to the local for a pint a few weeks ago.
I arrived at the pub at about ten o'clock. Hazel and Elsie (see below if you haven't heard of them before) had been there for about an hour and a half and had been talking to some guy named Glynn. They'd obviously got sick of him because as soon as I sat down they palmed him off onto me.
I think Glynn must have played a reed instrument at some point in his life. Only circular breathing could account for his ability to talk for half an hour without allowing a sufficient gap for even the rudest interruption. He started off by boring on about how he was "in the construction industry" (read: "a brickie").
Somehow I managed to mention that I worked at the hospital. He immediately countered with "my son works at the hospital. He's gay." Cue another half a fucking hour of agonising, probably word-for-word boredom about how his son had come out to him.
Eventually Hazel managed to interrupt. She wanted to borrow my phone. Such was my relief that I handed it over without thinking twice. It was only when I realised that she was ringing the police that I looked up and saw that she was in floods of tears. Apparently, while she'd been at the bar some bloke had lifted her top and tried to undo her bra. The police arrived a few minutes later, but by this time the culprit had wisely pissed off. While she'd been waiting for the filth to arrive Hazel had necked two pints and rendered herself nearly incoherent.
"He put his hand up me top and tried to undo me bra. I don't need it. I've got husband 't'home with cancer. Six t' twelve months to live. I don't need it. When you say my name a t'station they'll know it. My son's in prison. I don't need it. He's in prison for paedophile but he never done it. He was fitted up by that bitch wife of 'is and ma fucking adopted son. I don't want you treating me no different cos of it. I'm a respectable woman. I don't need that. Hands up me fucking top. I fucking don't."
...and so on until the police officers eventually bundled her and Elsie into the panda car and went off to have the miscreant's house pointed out to them.
By this point the bar had closed and I needed another drink. As I walked up the road to my house I passed the bunch of black kids (well, 15-20 year olds, anyway) who hang around outside the old converted church near the pub.
I'd always considered these guys to just be a harmless group of pot dealers/smokers without someone's flat to go round (much as my friends and I had been ten years or so ago), and thought they'd be the ideal people to ask where to get a drink at half eleven at night. Upon asking them, I was somewhat taken aback to be offered a lift to the petrol station. I got into their car, half expecting to be mugged, fucked or murdered. It turned out they were a coven of born again christians who had moved up here from north london to spread the word of God and do good works amongst the youth of North Nottingham. They were helping me to get wasted as an act of christian fucking charity.
"I used to be a really bad man. Dealing drugs and getting people beaten up and stuff. But then I let Jesus Christ into my life and I changed. My mother's really proud of me now." And so it went on. Everything I said was met with a fully referenced biblical reply. They even tried to get me to come along to one of their gospel choir recitals. Worst of all, the fucking garage was shut by the time we got there so I couldn't even drink myself into insensibility to block it out.
On the way back they offered to drop me at my door. I declined, saying the walk from the church would do me good.
Never let the bastards get your address.
