Back home, people seem to be suspicious of London and its unseemly delights. When I say people, I actually mean my Dad. During one of our many rows, where he vented his exasperation and suspicion as to why I felt it necessary to live in the Big Smoke, he implored, 'But there are Arabs there,' which confused me a tad. Either he'd read one too many Tin Tin novels or he'd just heard the urban legend about the lad who goes out on the pull, gets lucky and wakes up four days later minus one kidney that has been stolen by a duplicitous arab who, legend has it, drugged said bloke and then performed the DIY operation using a pair of stationary scissors, a wooden spoon and a non-toxic glue stick. Whether the bloke ever got his shag was unconfirmed. 'I don't mind Arabs,' I said casually to my Dad. 'In fact, some of my best mates are Arabs.' I sniffed indignantly, threw him a half smile and looked away, as though to underline the point. The colour visibly drained from my Dad's face as he fell into a deep silence. Moments later, he piped up again. 'But what about the Greeks? There are loads of Greeks there.' I didn't quite understand his beef towards Greeks, other than he had recently learned that the word Greek was also a euphemism for anal sex. To this day, I'm sure Dad would lay awake at night, convinced that somewhere in an underground shame hole in the nation's capital, some Arab was bumming his unwitting son before drugging him and attempting to steal vital organs. I should be so lucky. Dad went on: 'I don't know why you don't just move back home. It's nicer here. The people are better. Kinder. You think you're better than us don't you?'
Dad's cutting accusations could not have been further from the truth. I didn't think I was better at all. In retrospect, I did want more out of life than what I thought my village could offer me, but that didn't mean that I thought I was better. I'd moved away to university and had my head turned by London's bright lights. They excited and entranced me. They also spoke to my subconscious. In London, I could be who I wanted to be in a way that I felt I couldn't at home. A seismic shift was taking place on an emotional and personal level. It was a frightening change that I was struggling to admit to myself.
I moved straight from university to Acton in West London, where I moved in with best chum, Ruby. It was a glorious Saturday morning as we landed in her Fiat Uno. Despite an undercurrent of optimism, I was harbouring a feeling that I had chomped off significantly more than I was able to chew. I had no job, no social group and other than the fifty quid in my back pocket, (gained by cashing cheques at the uni bar that would later bounce in manner of power ball or fat person), I was broke.
I unpacked my the sum total of my life (which depressingly fitted into three boxes), went into the garden and had myself a little cry. My self pity extended to the Sunday until I decided to spend the majority of my money in the pub and then on Monday, I charged into the West End brimming with optimism and a cheesy grin, determined to seek out an employer. I was armed with a dozen copies of my CV, the contents of which were utter fiction - lets face it, when you've had four jobs during university and been sacked from them all, you've to be creative with what you’ve got.
Five hours later, I stood, depressed and exhausted in Leicester Square. Leaning against a tree, I wanted to curl up and have myself another cry. The day had been one long process of being rejected by various restaurants, cinemas, theatres, shops and over subscribed recruitment agencies. I arrived home in the late afternoon. Just after we had finished dinner, the telephone rang. It was for me! My first ever phone call in London! The person on the other end of the phone was inviting me for an interview the next day! Hurrah! The day was saved! I was going out into the workforce! Somebody stop me! And then Ruby’s Mam asked me a question that brought me back down to Earth with a bang. I hadn’t even thought of interview attire…
I turned up for my interview the next day looking like a circus clown. Ruby helped me sift through my typically student wardrobe and as we finished dumping my clothes into a pile on my bed, she smiled solemnly, exhaling sharply.
‘Slim pickings here, babe.’
‘Ironic really, as I’m too fat for most of it,’ I added, despondently.
As I arrived at the interview, I checked my reflection in the dusty window of a fetish themed sex shop. Beyond the whips and chains, my reflection was less than pleasing. The faded purple shirt that I was wearing bulged at the waist and had two buttons missing. Rather pitifully, it didn’t quite go with my navy combat trousers that had been washed five times too often. Despite this, the interview went well; I got the job and started that night working in the Prince Edward Theatre as Front of House Assistant. On the phone back to home, I was almost bursting with excitement as I delivered my news: ‘I’ve got a job in the Theatre!’ I would repeatedly tell anyone who would listen. The theatre! And even though I wasn’t entirely sure what Front of House Assistant meant exactly, it could only be something good. It certainly sounded it. My imagination ran riot as I saw myself on the stage, blinded by the bright lights, bowing to the standing ovations, catching huge bouquets of flowers and waving at my teary-eyed parents who had come down from Nottingham to see me. I couldn’t wait to start. Brimming with sanguinity, I caught the tube from Acton Town the following day, my home made good luck card from Ruby in my bag to spur me on. It was going to be fantastic, I had decided. I was going to love it.
I fucking hated it. With the exception of about two blokes, everyone was bitchy and hostile. With the exception of a couple of people, everyone was gay. I should've known, but I’ve always tried to resist buying into stereotypes, no matter how blatant they are. The Prince Edward (clue one) theatre was currently playing Mamma Mia, the Abba musical (clue two) and the place was situated on Old Compton Street, arguably the gayest street in England (clue three). The man who interviewed me smelled of White Musk and called me ‘darling’ (clue four), and as I walked into the changing room on my first night, a lad wearing make up and a crop top with bleached blonde hair (clue five) was calling his muscular friend a fat bitch (clue six).
I worked every single evening, including all day on Saturday and Thursday (bye-bye already non-existent social life) and for that, I was lucky if I cleared a hundred quid at the end of the week. Once I deducted travel and food, all I was left with about sixteen pence. On top of that, I was spending all day in this new city, alone. Ruby would leave for work at eight thirty and by the time she arrived home at six forty five, I would have been in work for an hour, so we never saw each other. By the time I got home at eleven thirty, she'd be fast asleep.
I lasted precisely two months at the theatre. Whilst my title seemed quite nifty, all I did was rip tickets and tell patrons to go down the stairs where they would find a bar and toilets. People would look at me as though I was simultaneously accusing them of alcoholism and incontinence, snatch their tickets and strop off in a huff. During the performance, I would sit by myself in the upstairs bar and stare enviously into the hustle and bustle of Old Compton Street and its mysterious patrons.
After eight weeks, I decided that enough was enough and that I was going to have to leave or die. The icing on the cake came when I was walking to the tube on my way home one night after the show. As I was about to enter Leicester Square station, a bloke - Arabic, forties, bald, unruly nasal hair - caught my eye. He looked suicidal. His gaze met mine and he walked towards me, mouthing the word, 'help.' Initially my response was to ignore him, but realising that this was my main gripe with London - rudeness and the fact that no one seemed to talk to each other - I reconsidered and asked him if he was okay. Big mistake.
He thought that I was a rent boy.
I stood there, shocked and open-mouthed as he told me that he had a wife and kids, and of course, he didn’t ordinarily do this kind of thing, but, hey - fortune favours the brave and all that.
‘Fancy a ton for a quick fuck?’ he offered.
‘What?’ I said in disbelief, desperate for one of the heaving throng around me to pick up on what was happening and come to my rescue.
‘A ton? A hundred quid. I’ll pay for the hotel too, obviously,’ he offered pleasantly. All I could think of was my Dad's face as I rang him from hospital to tell him that a man of middle eastern persuasion had bummed me in an underground shame hole in the nation's capital and then nicked my left kidney whilst I was out for the count.
I ran.
I ran into the tube station, scampered down the escalator, nearly causing a domino-like catastrophe, stormed through the maze of tunnels and didn't stop until I got onto the Acton-bound tube. And then the paranoia set in. What if he had followed me? What if he couldn’t take the rejection and needed to kill me in order to cover his tracks so that his wife didn’t find out? Not that I was being dramatic or anything. I was used to a small village, where the biggest scandal was when the bread sold out at the shop or the 141 bus didn't turn up. The twenty minute journey back to Acton was subsequently spent feigning curvature of the spine as I did my best to hide behind a pensioner engrossed in the final edition of the day's Evening Standard. Once I got to my stop, I sprinted back towards the safety of the house and didn't stop until I got through the front door, where for the third time in a week, I treated myself to a nice cry. Living in London was liberating chronic weeping not seen since I'd sat through Forrest Gump.
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