Kevin is a self-confessed “rubbish Gay”. He’s not a fan of pop music, can’t do interior design or baking, and fashion can kiss him on his fat non-designer baggy-jeaned arse. So when he gets unceremoniously dumped by his cheating boyfriend he decides to sod off to Australia to see if he can do it any better.
‘Away With The Fairies’ is the diary of this journey.
Caution: contains unedited private journal entries, featuring gratuitous self-pity, extreme sarcasm, and scenes of an explicit nature (if he’s lucky). Think Adrian Mole meets TOWIE, with a fabulous sprinkling of fairy dust
AWAY WITH THE FAIRIES:
THE UNTOLD JOURNEY OF A CHAMPAGNE BACKPACKER BY Kev St. John
Saturday 15th November
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So the dreaded Leaving Do finally arrived. My first night out in months. Was I nervous? What, of seeing people I care about for the first time in ages? Socialising? Drinking? Having fun? Of course I bloody was, and thank God it’s over.
Ok, so maybe it wasn’t quite as horrendous as I’d feared, but the best thing to come out of it was actually this very diary, and even this was meant as a joke. Abandoned on the bar next to my sister’s ‘Let’s Keep Him Out There Longer’ pot, there had been no name on the label, just a message telling me to “use this on your travels and quit putting your issues on facebook!” and this was from one of my so-called friends. Am I really that bad? Well, the joke’s on them as I intend to make full use of it. Cheap therapy, right?
I’d arrived at the pub early to sort out decorations and get things ready. It did occurred to me that there probably isn’t anything more pathetic than blowing up balloons for your own party, but I was relieved just to be let back in. I know I’ve dropped my boss – my ex-boss – right in it by leaving so quick. I poured myself a quick double when the new girl wasn’t looking, and took a quick selfie to check my acting skills. Would my ‘happy face’ convince people I was actually happy? After all, it was my first attempt at one for a while.
Looking at the results, I should’ve won a bloody Oscar. There were realistically jolly dimples in my chubby cheeks, my blond hair was finally gelled into something resembling a style (giving the impression I gave a damn) and there were even convincingly laughy blue eyes above my pig snout of a nose (as he liked to call it). In fact, by the time I left the pub I was actually disappointed to have fooled everyone so easily. Not one person asked me how I was!
Even though they had come to my party, I spent the whole evening wanting to apologise for being there. I knew that my big fake smile could do nothing to improve my enormous moon-face (again, HIS words), and I struggled to make eye contact with anyone. After all, there was no hiding the chins that spilled over my collar or the flab that spilled over my belt. I felt embarrassed just being in people’s eye-line, and they’d probably all come just to check I was going anyway. Yet despite all this, I was way more relaxed with the Straights at the pub than I was when I moved onto the club afterwards to be amongst ‘my own kind’. Because sometimes I really can’t stand the Gays.
There, I said it. With only one exception that I can think of, every gay guy I’ve ever met has sucked. And not in a good way. With all those sideways looks and bitchy comments, it makes me wonder if it’s possible for a homo to be homophobic. Fake-tanned clones had displayed their talents on the dance floor like pumped up peacocks, gyrating in perfect rhythm, flicking over-processed hair, smoothing too-neat eyebrows, wearing jeans that looked spray-painted on and seductively peeling off barely-there-anyway vests. How could I feel anything other than inadequate? I couldn’t be more different if I tried. I finger-pointed my way through three consecutive Britney remixes whilst trying to keep my guts sucked in, and eventually wiped my pale and sweaty face on the sleeve of my ill-fitting non-designer jumper, and rejoined Michael at the bar to get my breath back.
He’d immediately tutted.
“Oh for Gaga’s sake, Kev. You’re off to the other side of the world in the morning! TRY to enjoy yourself.”
He patted my knee and sighed dramatically, pushing his curly hair from his eyes.
“If there was EVER a time for you to take a risk and do something crazy it would be now. Break out of your comfort zone. Do something you’ll regret in the morning!” He nudged me and a wicked grin spread across his face. “Or someone.”
He pointed across the bar to one of the many people out of my league.
“What about him? He’s super cute.”
“No chance,” I scoffed. “Just look at him! Besides, I honestly couldn’t be less interested in men at the moment. I think HE turned me into a lesbian.”
We both gurned at the thought.
“The only thing I have any intention of staggering home with tonight is a portion of chips and a battered sausage.” I jiggled my belly dramatically. “You don’t get a figure like mine without working on it, you know.”
As usual, Michael rolled his eyes. He doesn’t like it when I put myself down, not understanding that if I do it first then no one else can beat me to it.
“For the fifth time tonight, hun, you are NOT fat.” He put his arm around me and gave me a tight hug. “You just stand out more, that’s all.”
I smiled weakly and fought the urge to pull away, aware of how wobbly and sweaty I must feel.
“You know some people starve themselves when they’re miserable?” I sighed. “Why can’t I be more like them? I’d be skinny in no time. Instead, I always want to cut myself -”
Michael shrieked in horror, and grabbed my arm to check for scars.
“… a big piece of cake,” I finished.
We’d laughed then, and it had felt good. It was the first one I’d had in ages.
“Kev, can I make a suggestion?”
Michael’s face had turned serious, which is quite rare.
“You haven’t had a proper snog since You Know Who. I think you should have a practise session before you go, just to iron out the kinks.”
“You Know Who? I never dated Voldemort you know. You can say his name! And what do you mean snog someone? Who? I’m not just gonna go up to someone and -”
“Look,” he interrupted, “you don’t want all those Aussie hunks to think us Brits are bad kissers, do you?” He grabbed my top and pulled me close. “Just find someone quick, because if you don’t score by chucking-out time you’ll have to make do with me.”
I was too nervous to go near anyone else, and as we left Michael made good on his threat. It wasn’t as weird as I’d imagined, and he was right – I had needed a dress rehearsal. I do realise it’s probably not wise to make out with your best mate then scarper, but we both refrained from an un-dressed rehearsal so no harm done.
© 2015 – 2018, Kev St. John. All rights reserved.
