28th June 2015.
Post-Pride Flotsam No:1.
Just now, on the Central line on my way home from work: three young gay boys ... too much sun, too much drink, looking as worse for wear as the drooping rainbow flags they were still just about holding on to. Arms around each other, hugging, kissing ... just laughing, laughing, laughing and looking so bloody invincible! Brought a tear to this old homo's eye and a big smile to my face.
Post-Pride Flotsam No:2.
Sunday morning, 8.30 am on the 254 Bus to Bethnal Green. Young skinny, tall guy in gold-sequined shorts, sporting a Mohican, sat in the luggage rack with his bare feet hanging over the edge. Next to him a short, magnificent old-style chunky Dyke in cheque shirt holding on a bit precariously to one of the bus posts. Both in their early twenties I’d guess. The bus is pretty busy – half the passengers look at them in consternation and half with conspiratorial grins. The boy, in a beautiful broad Yorkshire accent: “Oh Love, my feet are absolutely KILLING me!” and waggles his dirt-caked toes exhaustedly.
As I leave the bus a cute, muscley bearded guy, maybe in his forties, looks over at me. I would have taken him to be a prime example of butch homosexual manhood, but it turns out he’s from Russia and not so happy …
“It’s just a couple of young people on their way back from a great night out.”
“It was too much for me: I had to look away.”
“I thought it was brilliant. They looked like they’d had a lot of fun.”
“In this country everything is allowed – it’s too much.”
Animated, long (pretty friendly) conversation ensues …