Friday, 24 June 2011

Bin tennis

I'm with the parents in Yorkshire, in a pub somewhere near Barnsley. The lady in our Premier Inn recommended a place called Penistone (fnah fnah) but it turned out to be an ultra-dump, filled to the rafters with aggressive-looking young lads wearing man-made fabrics, so we made a swift exit, and found ourselves in a much nicer-looking village.

We slowly made our way up the A1 this morning, stopping at Stamford -where my mother purchased a necklace and I brought an assortment of dry cakes - and an out-of-town mall somewhere near Newark, where I bought nothing.

My mother has injured her knee and is hobbling around on crutches like a proper invalid. She is, as ever, looking on the bright side. Apparently, all manner of nice people have been stopping to chat to her. The people in Stamford seemed particularly friendly. I had a competition with a charming 70-year-old lady, to see who would be the first to throw a screwed up piece of paper into a dustbin!

After Les Mis last night, Philip, Ryan and I went out onto the streets of Soho. We had an absolute ball meeting all manner of people. Trannies, rent boys, homeless magicians, photographers, singing tailors and door men who used to be actors. All life is there. Rather hideously Philip got attacked again - fortunately this time by a tiny little drag queen with flowers in his hair, who was 80 years old and mad as a hatter. He ran up to Philip and smacked his face. Not very hard and more weird than frightening, but still...

Philip in the rubbish

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