Life in London is tough. Especially if, like me, you’re single, foreign, queer, not exactly affluent. It’s tough. That’s why you need a secret weapon. A secret weapon to fall back on, just to make it through one exhausting week after another, year after disappointing year. No, it’s not drugs (although those help.) It’s your best friend.
My best friend for years now has been Aoife. Aoife is fabulous. She can start a conversation with anyone, blag her way past any bouncer, knows an unlimited number of London life hacks, cheers me up when I’m down but knows when to tell me to shape up and stop the pity party. When I first saw her, she was slumped down drunk at a warehouse rave, with some skeezy guy trying to put his arm around her, despite her tired attempts to ward him off. I went over to them and asked if everything was all right, and she pulled me down beside her and said, pointedly, ‘this is my boyfriend’, which sent the other guy on his way. When I asked her if she was okay, she said no. Her friends had all gone and this place was full of fucking gobshites. I agreed, and joked that at least the gobshites had no gaydar; that must have been the first time in my life I’d passed for straight. I helped her get her coat from the cloakroom and order an Uber. While we waited outside by the queue, I kept up a mindless patter, thinking it might help her to sober up, listening to me there in the cool night air. I told her about my life, how I’d recently started doing stand-up, how it scared me shitless, but also felt great to tell my stupid jokes about ‘I don’t know, the misery of gay life or something.’ She was intrigued, said she loved comedy and told me to add her on Instagram and send her the details. I obliged, but didn’t think I would ever see her again after I’d sent her off in the car.
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