Fishy Smells All Round

As I'm sure you noticed, Dear Reader, it was the London Marathon on Sunday, and the runners come right past where The Boyf and I live without even bothering to ask us whether we mind. In the same way that you can lose interest in a hot guy the moment he seems interested, living on the marathon route means we've no interest in watching it. It's just too easy. Plus the marathon creates havoc with London's transport system. So we got up early on Sunday (after a Saturday night at home!) and headed down to Brighton to soak up the chilled atmosphere and stupidly hot weather we're having, and were joined by The Drag Queen, looking her usual glamorous self.

The Boyf knew how much I'd want to visit the SeaLife Centre so we dragged The DQ in to look at the fish and allow me the chance to display my mild autistic tendencies by naming each species and giving interesting facts about them without looking at the info' next to each tank. However it appeared that The DQ was causing some problems. Her glitter body-powder, brilliant green glitter-eyeshadow, huge red lips, and the crystal chandelier that had been put into service as her necklace were scaring certain of the fish, whilst others attempted to mate with her through the glass. When the octopus attempted to climb from it's tank we decided enough was enough and headed out and to the beach. The nudist beach, in fact...

There was no way we were going to go nude with The DQ around, but the nudist beach is populated by the gays, obviously, so The Boyf and I can get away with cuddling in public. I was just admiring a particularly large pair of balls belonging to a guy laying behind me, when I noticed a black guy walking along the beach towards us. He had long flowing dreadlocks, and even from a distance his tiny thong was obviously straining to contain something rather massive. I alerted The Boyf and The DQ and we all watched as he passed us and then laid his towel down about 20 feet away. We watched with baited breath as he bent over and pulled down his thong, and when he stood up there was a collective gasp from the amassed sunbathers. He was H-U-G-E. The DQ clutched her chandelier to her bosom, and I think I may have fainted for a moment. We looked around. Everyone was shifting uncomfortably on their towels, a feeling of mass-insecurity sweeping the beach. Most people decided that they ought to lay on their fronts for a while, or even put shorts on. I thanked my lucky stars I was already partially dressed. Mr King Dong did a little pirouette, just to make sure everyone had seen his third arm, and then laid down on his towel, on his back naturally, and slowly the whispers died down and the beach returned to normal.

We'd taken magazines with us to read on the beach, and true to form they said everything about us. I had "Evo", a car magazine, because it had a test of the new blah blah blah (you're not really interested anyway). The DQ had "Grazia", for this week's celeb gossip and hot fashions. And The Boyf had "The Pink Paper", because he's uncontrollably gay. Suddenly the stillness of the beach was interrupted (again) by The Boyf exclaiming "Oh look who it is in The Pink Paper!". On Page 1 was a photo of The Boyf, with a referral to Page 13. On Page 13 there were two photos of The Boyf, taken in a bar we'd been to a couple of week before. Apparently I'd been elbowed out of shot in both photos. Either that or I was off doing something more interesting in another part of the bar (like the toilets). The Boyf proceeded to go into his famous faux "Large Ego Mode", proclaiming that he couldn't go anywhere without being photographed, and that he was tired of his face staring back at him from the pages of magazines. "I'm on two separate pages of The Pink Paper", he exclaimed with a hand held palm-backwards on his forehead, "Oh, why can't they let me go out in peace!" in a voice loud enough to make sure all the gays on the beach knew how famous he was.

OMO (sniggering): "Oh look, they've quoted you too"

Above The Boyf's photo was a question, and below it his answer. The (rather bizarre) question was: "If you were a Care Bear what logo would you have on your chest?". The Boyf's answer: "A tadpole, as in sperm".

The Boyf: "I SO didn't say that! I've been mis-quoted! Everyone's gonna think I'm an airhead now!"

OMO: "Constant paparazzi interference and now you're being mis-quoted in the press. Ah, the price of celebrity"

The Boyf: "But... but... actually I may have said that. I was pretty drunk. Oh shit!"

The DQ and I shared a smirk and went back to our magazines, The Boyf's ego clearly already deflating nicely.

We finished the day off having a few drinks in a bar and then having a lovely meal in a little restaurant, finally catching the train home for some much-needed sleep.