life. ‘I’m sick of this crowd,’ he’d say, week
after week. ‘The same tired old faces.’
‘That
boy over there isn’t tired or old,’ said Charles. ‘He’s fresh meat. Looks
German to me. I wonder if he’d like to drive up my autobahn?’
‘What’s
the point?’ complained Roger. ‘I don’t want to be someone’s holiday romance.
They can fuck off. I’ve got more self-respect than that. I want a boyfriend.’
Roger
craved permanency, yet his consistent and unwavering cynicism about life in general
seemed to prevent him attaining his goal. Every passing male between the ages
of twenty and sixty was given the once-over, assessed on the spot for their
suitability and usually found to be sub-standard.
‘Not
husband material,’ Roger would say, after the cute barman had given him his
change. ‘Too young. And I’m sorry, but I’m not moving in with a man who has a
Betty Boop tattoo on his arm. I don’t care how good-looking he is.’
‘He’s
only served you a drink,’ Simon pointed out. ‘He hasn’t, as yet, expressed an
interest in becoming your life partner.’
‘I saw
the look in his eye,’ said Roger, indignantly.
‘So did
I,’ said Simon, under his breath.
Nevertheless,
they would all chat and moan and provide companionship of sorts for each other.
There was never any suggestion that their friendship would lead to anything
more, although Charles had once made a half-hearted pass at Simon when they
were both feeling particularly desperate. Simon was quick to put his cards on
the table. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do gays. I’m saving myself for the night bus
home. It’s Destination Neasden. Need I say more?’
‘Aha!’
said Charles, not in the least bit offended. ‘I think it’s much the same on the
Croydon bus. Boys will be boys, after all. Message understood.’
One
night when he and Simon were out together, Roger declared he was going on the
pull and left Simon at the bar. He returned a bare three minutes later with
what Simon could only describe as a novelty pensioner in tow. ‘This is
Freddie,’ Roger announced. Soon they were kissing passionately, and within
twenty minutes, he and Freddie had disappeared into the night together. Left
alone at the bar, Simon found himself a comfortable spot and settled in for a
night on his own, followed by a little jaunt on Clapham Common to finish things
off nicely. He could survive without his cruising chum.
But it
seemed that true love had finally come Roger’s way, and it happened with
lightning speed. The following week, he said that he was moving in with Freddie
and, furthermore, that he was relocating to the Midlands.
‘He’s
everything I’ve ever wanted,’ said Roger, misty-eyed.
‘You
mean he lives in sheltered accommodation and he’s got some Viagra?’ snapped
Simon. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’
‘You
can’t move in after just a week,’ objected Charles.
‘He’s
the One,’ said Roger, as if he was proclaiming the winner of a talent contest.
‘All I can say is, you know when something’s right. I only hope it happens to
you one day. You can’t stay on the scene for ever, you know. Sooner or later
you become a sad old fucker. So long, losers.’
With
that, he left. It was going on for two years now, and no one had heard from
Roger since, but none of them were the type to keep in touch with each other.
He must have changed his phone number as well, for when Simon did send a casual
text enquiring after his health, there was no reply. Simon was surprised by how
much he missed his old friend but, after all, they’d spent many years drinking
and cruising together. Of course he wished him well and cheered him on — he was
all for people getting what they wanted, good for Roger — but now it was just
him and Charles.
Simon
arrived at Brief Encounter on St Martin’s Lane to find Charles had got there
first and was already finishing a bottle of beer. Simon ordered his, and in no
time at all, they were
after week. ‘The same tired old faces.’
‘That
boy over there isn’t tired or old,’ said Charles. ‘He’s fresh meat. Looks
German to me. I wonder if he’d like to drive up my autobahn?’
‘What’s
the point?’ complained Roger. ‘I don’t want to be someone’s holiday romance.
They can fuck off. I’ve got more self-respect than that. I want a boyfriend.’
Roger
craved permanency, yet his consistent and unwavering cynicism about life in general
seemed to prevent him attaining his goal. Every passing male between the ages
of twenty and sixty was given the once-over, assessed on the spot for their
suitability and usually found to be sub-standard.
‘Not
husband material,’ Roger would say, after the cute barman had given him his
change. ‘Too young. And I’m sorry, but I’m not moving in with a man who has a
Betty Boop tattoo on his arm. I don’t care how good-looking he is.’
‘He’s
only served you a drink,’ Simon pointed out. ‘He hasn’t, as yet, expressed an
interest in becoming your life partner.’
‘I saw
the look in his eye,’ said Roger, indignantly.
‘So did
I,’ said Simon, under his breath.
Nevertheless,
they would all chat and moan and provide companionship of sorts for each other.
There was never any suggestion that their friendship would lead to anything
more, although Charles had once made a half-hearted pass at Simon when they
were both feeling particularly desperate. Simon was quick to put his cards on
the table. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do gays. I’m saving myself for the night bus
home. It’s Destination Neasden. Need I say more?’
‘Aha!’
said Charles, not in the least bit offended. ‘I think it’s much the same on the
Croydon bus. Boys will be boys, after all. Message understood.’
One
night when he and Simon were out together, Roger declared he was going on the
pull and left Simon at the bar. He returned a bare three minutes later with
what Simon could only describe as a novelty pensioner in tow. ‘This is
Freddie,’ Roger announced. Soon they were kissing passionately, and within
twenty minutes, he and Freddie had disappeared into the night together. Left
alone at the bar, Simon found himself a comfortable spot and settled in for a
night on his own, followed by a little jaunt on Clapham Common to finish things
off nicely. He could survive without his cruising chum.
But it
seemed that true love had finally come Roger’s way, and it happened with
lightning speed. The following week, he said that he was moving in with Freddie
and, furthermore, that he was relocating to the Midlands.
‘He’s
everything I’ve ever wanted,’ said Roger, misty-eyed.
‘You
mean he lives in sheltered accommodation and he’s got some Viagra?’ snapped
Simon. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’
‘You
can’t move in after just a week,’ objected Charles.
‘He’s
the One,’ said Roger, as if he was proclaiming the winner of a talent contest.
‘All I can say is, you know when something’s right. I only hope it happens to
you one day. You can’t stay on the scene for ever, you know. Sooner or later
you become a sad old fucker. So long, losers.’
With
that, he left. It was going on for two years now, and no one had heard from
Roger since, but none of them were the type to keep in touch with each other.
He must have changed his phone number as well, for when Simon did send a casual
text enquiring after his health, there was no reply. Simon was surprised by how
much he missed his old friend but, after all, they’d spent many years drinking
and cruising together. Of course he wished him well and cheered him on — he was
all for people getting what they wanted, good for Roger — but now it was just
him and Charles.
Simon
arrived at Brief Encounter on St Martin’s Lane to find Charles had got there
first and was already finishing a bottle of beer. Simon ordered his, and in no
time at all, they were
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