Respect Authority

Gay bars, no matter where you are in the world, are no place for politics. Even if it’s three thirty in the morning and the staff is telling you to leave. No, in fact, especially if it’s three thirty in the morning and the staff is telling you to leave. A lesson I tend to forget. And admittedly, the more drinks I consume the faster I become the cynic, as I was tonight with the intelligent remark, “Honestly, James, I’m going to get an absentee ballot, but it doesn’t mean anything. It just doesn’t. I’m from New York, Obama will get New York.” My roommate, Bridget, doesn’t like this.

Cut to twenty minutes later and I’m phoning my straight English mate, James, who is now standing outside Heaven in Charing Cross. James doesn’t seem as nervous as he should over the phone, as he is about to descend into the depth of trannies, glitter, bad music, and perhaps, date rape, and I’m trying equally hard to sound calm as I bury the fact that I am completely lost in central London. Bridget has left me, and she’s the clever one who knows London, whereas I know nothing. I am about to start my second year here and I’m lost. I had been home in Brooklyn for most of the summer and this was my first night out since touching down in The Big Smoke, as they call it. (Incidentally, I thought this “Big Smoke” thing meant Heaven when I originally heard the term and replied, “I’m sorry, I don’t believe in Heaven, so I can’t answer that question.”)

I was drunk… a bit high, yes, but also completely flustered by the argument I had just had with my roommate as a result of my callous opinion on the upcoming election. Ultimately, it ended with a shove and one of us storming off, but that’s not important. After the kind old man helped me up, I was off to save James from the impending doom that awaited him. I was right off Picadilly Circus, so that meant if I walked in the direction of Leicester Square and Charing Cross I would be at Heaven in no time.

But I was fucking pissed off. Why can’t Bridget just let me be negative? I’m drinking, I’m allowed to be a sour-puss. Left turn here, I believe. Fuck her, that’s what I say. Fuck her, and I’m not talking to her when I get home, or tomorrow when it’s going to be awkward being in the cube studio flat we share. Turn right here — huh, what is this? Is that Picadilly Circus? Have I made a circle? How could I make a circle around a circle and not realize it? (It’s actually quite easy.) Is my phone ringing? I just want to get to HEAVEN!! Go back to Charing Cross Road, PJ.

I was lost. That kind of lost where if you had a clear head you wouldn’t be lost at all. But, of course, my head was not clear. Gin has that greasy cloudy appearance if you look at it closely, and I was full of gin. And THC is cloudy, obviously, because I had smoked it. But I tried to regroup anyway. I kept closing my eyes as though that would solve everything; as though beneath my lids a clear red line would trace the path I would have to follow to return to friends who said “pardon?” instead of “what?” and who knew that Treacle Tart wasn’t a Harry Potter wizard dessert but a real life dessert that any of us could enjoy.

My phone was ringing. A lot. It was Bridget.

“Hello?”

“PJ! It’s Bridget, I’m sorry, where are you?”

“I’m on Charing Cross Road, Bridget, help me, I’m lost and I’m trying to get back to Heaven.”

“Ok, well I’m almost near Heaven, meet me here.”

The next ten minutes involved incredibly difficult directions, small streets with names like “Crow’s Nest Road” and “Aunt Napkin Lane”, and my desperate shrill cries that echoed off the tall walls that closed in around me.

A clearing appeared. I’m near Heaven, I thought. I dashed across the few lanes of traffic, obviously looking in the wrong direction both ways, and fell straight into Bridget’s arms. After pleasantries were exchanged, we made our way to the entrance.

“No, excuse me, but no one else is allowed in,” we were told.

Heaven is full.

Which is funny because it’s filled with a bunch of gays and James.

We turned and began to walk back to Picadilly Circus to take our night bus home to Notting Hill, which as a neighborhood is only relevant to family back home when we mention the Julia Roberts/Hugh Grant film, which I love because I feel American when I do that.

Heaven would only be full for about another hour and a half, just like Heaven should be: cleared out every dawn.

A Bowl of Cheerio is London Correspondent PJ’s regular column about his experiences as a lifelong New Yorker, born and raised on good American values like reality TV, pop music and gin, in jolly ole’ London. PJ isn’t officially our “London Correspondent,” but he’s taken it upon himself to both live among Brits AND attend acting school, thereby ensuring a bounty of witty commentary. A Bowl of Cheerio will appear every Monday, with other contributions in between since we all know the British do whatever they want (just look at Prince Charles.)