The Visit

Heathrow Terminal 3

“Don’t forget to take your vitamins, alright?” Mom was finishing her bottle of water, since liquid containers of any sort are not allowed inside airport terminals.

“Mom, of course…. Come on now, you guys will be late.”

“Just buy shoes if you need some more pairs, so here’s our extra 100 pounds.” Dad took out five 20-pound notes from his pocket, and gave them to me.

After a tight hug from Mom, and a pat from Dad, they disappeared along with thousands of travellers queuing for immigration.

Two weeks just whisked away like lightning. When I fetched them at the same terminal in Heathrow 14 days ago, they were shivering under 4 layers of clothing, while I strutted with them at Trafalgar Square on just a brown jumper and a T-shirt.

Given the situation on the first day of The Visit, it was amusing to get stuck on the huge public protest regarding spending cuts. We had to technically ‘join’ and march with the Britons in order to get out.

My parents had seen it all… the beauty and the beast of living in Britain. Sure, castles, markets, and high streets seem to be appealing to the normal Filipino, but think again. A 50% tax rate, limited pension and child benefits, inflation overpowering real wages, immigration issues, you name it. My parents had seen and heard it all… the stories that will make one think twice about living here.

That was the primary reason why I had qualms on them visiting. I don’t want them to see me on this state… this state of confusion, desolation, and depression. Setting the emo-ness aside, I just don’t want to burden them anymore by taking their time and money just by checking on their son.

Then again, it can be a stress-reliever to see them again and to tour them around the Kingdom, isn’t it?

Well, that’s exactly what I did.

From the slum areas of Peckham, to the medieval towns in Scotland, they took snapshots of them as well. Yes, aside from the two-week period living in gratis, I managed to sit back, relax, and reflect on a lot of things… well, not totally, since it was still a bit stressing to fix schedules and itineraries for the next out-of-town trips.

For one, I must certainly be punished for taking my health and well-being for granted. Pimples were sprouting in every corner of my face, and eyebags were at their fullest form…. All because of a 51 hour work week I took a week before The Visit.

Second, love life. It’s still nil after my eighth month. Not making much progress do I? I even made a joke to Art that I will be a ‘hot item’ back in the Philippines. Agawan, ika nga.

You guys might be wondering where the hell my parents resided during the course of the visit. As London is known for its notoriety in hotel prices, God managed to plan it perfectly, by letting Ray transfer to a new home at Harrow-on-the-Hill, and letting my new roommate delay his transfer for two weeks. So, the events were so coincidental that it must’ve been an act of God.

Yes, a lot has happened since I last updated this dying blog, but it’ll be a pain in the arse to talk about them all over again.

As Bruno Mars would say, or sing for the matter… Easy come, easy go.

Porn Idol

Why the hell are we going inside and spend £3, when we can get free entry flyers at Old Compton Street?

It was a night out that had gone wrong (well, not really) with Ray, I, and his friend Jen, when he explicitly told a lie as we were passing by Charing Cross station. He got ‘curious’ at this bar called Heaven, and it will be first time to venture in this club.

This gay club? Please. It was only last week that we’ve been here with Edric, so, why come back here and risk the fact that he brought a straight girl friend.

I was supposed to bring them to a simple English pub to experience the traditional Briton nightlife. However, it got the best of Ray when he explicitly dragged us to this, erm, revealing place. I got a bit miffed, primarily because it was really not right to lie, and second, it’s not really good to drag someone who clearly doesn’t have an idea who I really am. I can’t help but think if God is testing me or not.

Anyhow, since we both have to act like we’re naïve or something, we asked a lot of nonsensical questions on the bouncers and bartenders, like the entrance fee, where the toilets were located, and the minimum card payment value.

The three of us managed to take a spot while eyeing on the different hot guys dancing. It felt funny as I spotted Filipinos coming in herds.

“Baluarte ng mga Pinoy,” I whispered to Ray.

Seriously. The ages would range from about 20s to late 40s, and it was amusing to see that they looked as gay as ever.

After a few more songs, the lights went back on, and it meant only one thing.

It was time for Heaven’s special Thursday show…. Porn Idol!

Going back, we were asked by these effeminate party organisers outside the club if we would fancy registering for this contest. Hello? Me, stripping in front of hundreds of people, just for some money? No way, man. Maybe if I get a bit inebriated, then fine.

I was about to faint because I was trying my best to keep my excitement to a minimum whenever I feel that Jen would eye me from head to foot.

There were 9 contestants that night, and they have to strip on stage, and based from the audience and the judges’ scores, the winner will get a 100 quid.

I left Ray and Jen at the back and moved a bit closer to the stage to get alongside with all the cheers, boos, and the cramped spaces.

So, one after the other, contestants strutted, stripping off their piece of clothing, either showcasing something mouth-watering or something disgusting. And everyone just bit their lips when a Spanish couple kissed torridly on stage while stripping off their clothes, revealing their God-damn-it bodies.

Even after cheering loudly for the Spanish couple, they only won second place. I almost lost my voice for them! A chubby Cypriot guy won just because he shook his arse like Shakira. The British public sometimes have their share of insanity.

Instead of getting conscious of the possible repercussions, I just chugged my Jack Daniels, whilst dancing to the tune of The Time (Dirty Bit).

It felt so intoxicating. The boom boom sounds resonating on the dance floor, with the piercing white, blue, yellow, and pink dance lights that flicker every millisecond.

I never wanted it to end. It felt so good letting all my inhibitions go, every for just this night. Hell, I was working for 40 hours already since Sunday.

Now that I’ve thought about it, I actually don’t care anymore. The reason why life is getting frustrating is because I always think how people will perceive me.

That is wrong, painfully wrong. It’s like you’re digging your own grave if you keep on doing that. It’s your life, not theirs. Why think so much about what they will say? Yes, culture and society play a role here, which is why London is the place to be… for letting all your inhibitions out, just for this moment in your life.

That is why my friends, I can’t wait to go back to Manila, to meet my cyberfriends, and venture on the bars along Malate.

The Shake-Up

First, really sorry for the lack of posts. Got really busy in school and work, to the point that I am not sure if I am back in college or not.

Finally, after finishing a Marketing presentation and a 3000-word assignment, it’s the time to reflect again.

Last week was the advent of a new beginning for Josh. I dunno what God wants me to do or not, but I just have to take it as it is, right?

And pardon me, my creative juices was totally drained from the assignment, so I just have to write in a news-orderly manner.

-----

It all started with a message… from PlanetRomeo.

I got amused by his quote in his faceless profile. “Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.”

My instincts told me to reply and say something witty like, “Suffering is inevitable as well. It’s how we deal with it that is optional.”

And I did just that.

And after the couple of exchanges, it got a bit overwhelming.

The funny thing was, he’s also a Filipino who has been here for just 3-weeks. Goodness, I thought he was American or something because of his grasp of the language, not to mention his profile said that he only speaks US English.

And he needs help, because he’s jobless, not to mention about to be homeless.

The old Josh back in Manila would just shy away from the meet-up that was supposed to happen at Waterloo Station the next day. A faceless person in a very dodgy website.

But, as if London had changed him, it feels like he has the responsibility to help dispossessed people, especially Filipinos, to cope up in this unforgiving city. And I decided to give it a shot.

And I have to say, it was the right decision. I think.

It was decided, after the getting to know part in our short tour around Chinatown, Earl’s Court, Piccadilly, and the streets of Soho, that he can be my person here, in Britain’s capital.

No, Ray will not be that kind of person. Just a simple person to talk to.

The problem is, why is my heart suddenly beating in search for life again, after a few weeks of dormancy?

And yes, for the past week, I’ve helped him find a place to stay, met a few classmates and colleagues of him, and it’ll just a couple of days before I will be his new roommate.

Shh, guys. Think what you like.

-----

We were outside Heaven, and Edric, Ray, and I were just waiting for dance floor to open.

After walking around Oxford Street, Ray and I decided to meet up with Edric and grabbed some drinks at The Yard.

And then, when alcohol got the best among all of us, the truth started to unfold.

It has been confirmed. All of us had something in common, in varying degrees.

I’ll not go into details, but all of my speculations have been proven, and vice versa as well. Yes, the background details kept on coming out.

“Actually Josh, I was really feeling it already. No straight guy would frequent Soho like it’s their second home or something,” Edric said.

Oh… is that it? What the hell has just happened for the past few weeks? God really played a part, isn’t it? It only means one thing then.

My primary life and my other life are officially overlapping.

And this will might be the last time I will update and write something in this blog. As my other life is slowly getting intertwined with my primary one, I guess it’s time to respect each other’s privacy and take things from here.

I’ll really miss writing though, but, as if I have readers in the first place. I don’t think it will be a great loss if I commit self-immolation.

An Order Call

Josh: Thank you for calling. How can I help you?

Customer (guy): I'd like to order some pizzas please for delivery!

He had a very perky voice. Very amusing. Order taking session went on as expected.

Josh: So, your order was.... (repeats order). Anything else?

Customer: No that would be all thank you.

Josh: That would be 23.49, and delivery time is around 45 minutes.

Customer: Cheers. By the way, just want to say, I love you....

Josh: *silence*

Customer: To the pizzas...

Josh (whose face went like a tomato): To the pizzas?

Customer: Yeah. To the pizzas. *Laughs heartily on the background*

Josh: *laughs as well* Well, then, thank you. Cheers... bye!

That was one weird and funny call. And it was so tempting to get his phone number from the computer and contact him after work. LOL.

Frustrated Lover

It is a perpetual cycle.

Getting to know someone. Being infatuated. Falling in love. Professing it. Working your way to the highest point of the relationship. Slowly knowing each other’s differences. Getting annoyed and tired at the relationship. Trying to make it work. Giving up. Breaking apart. Searching for new love.

Over the past couple of years, it wasn’t a very smooth ride in terms of looking for my Romeo. Yes, there came a time that someone loved me, but I still wasn’t sure of myself, so I just shunned his feelings for me. Yeah, I was a jerk.

For most other times, I fell for someone that is almost always under these five categories.

One, he’s straight.

Second, he’s taken.

Third, he’s too good looking/perfect for me.

Fourth, he’s interested, but distance will come into play.

And last but not the least, he might be gay, but he’s stopping his desires by immersing into divinity.

Yes, it’s pretty sure that most, if not all of us has experienced this. Getting frustrated in terms of love. Why can’t it be more tameable? Why can’t it go our way?

Then again, life will be boring and monotonous if it were too predictable and generous.

But seriously, when one is in the middle of a social circle wherein peers are moving on with their lives, falling deeply in love, being successfully reciprocated and so on and so on, who wouldn’t be tempted to go sulk in a corner, disdaining all the good things happening around you?

It will even get frustrating come Valentine’s Day, where couples from all over will flaunt their ‘undying’ love for each other, while the singles will just have to bear the day by engaging in work, school, and taking the commute home with all those lovely jubblies screaming at you.

And this, is the anatomy of a frustrated lover.

Bar Hopping

“Where are you running to?”

The bouncer stopped us, and with his soft Polish accent, asked us again. “Where are you running to?”

The four of us were taken aback.

Edric moved a bit closer and said, “Um, we’re going to the bar. Isn’t it obvious?”

“You all are very much aware that it is a gay bar, right?”

Pow. I didn’t expect that. I thought we will all be relaxing and taking our time off at a straight bar in Soho. Yes, there are a couple of straight bars and pubs in Soho as well.

“Well, you look very young. Below 18, actually,” the bouncer said in his unmoving poker face. “Can I have a look of your identifications please.”

Even though his English will make someone from Katipunan laugh till God knows when, it’s not the right moment to even snicker. I don’t have my passport with me, but I have my Oyster card that says I am an 18+ student.

The three of us were through with our Oyster. Except for one. Edric. His laminated version of his school ID was not enough, and his Oyster card doesn’t say that he’s 18+ because he has the old version.

“But I’ve been here a couple of times and I haven’t been checked.” He reiterated.

“Sorry, rules are rules.” The ruthless bouncer just stood there triumphantly, having picked upon his preys for the night.

“Leave it, let’s just go somewhere else shall we?” He ushered.

Now, it would be ok if it all went perfectly. The problem is, we have two companions who are absolutely clueless with regard to Soho’s vibrant and colourful nightlife.

With us, were Gene, and Art.

-----

After that trip to Oxford earlier that day, I’ve had enough. No one’s really right for me, maybe.

And since we’ve already finished visiting all the sights before 6pm, we decided to go back to London a bit earlier than our actual booked time. And I was sweating when the conductor checked our tickets. Good thing he didn’t check it very rigorously.

Upon returning to the bustling city, the gang kept on pressing me to go to the bar where I fuckin’ lost my phone and unwind there.

And I can’t tell them, because if I bring them to Village, then, hell will break loose.

So, there we were, looking for a bar that seems to have a kind bouncer on the entrance. Since when did kind and bouncer go hand in hand?

We managed to enter Bar Soho without the bouncer’s questioning, but alas, the bar was too noisy with its booming surround speaker system and was kind of cramped with no places to sit and have a nice chit-chat.

We had to go out and look for a quieter one. I was on the verge of spilling my secret out by leading them to Village (which had a 50% off on drinks on a Monday), but then, something caught my eye.

Glee night, on Ku Bar in Frith Street.

Yeah, even though Ku Bar is a gay one as well, the poster seemed to show that it’s a harmless bar that can welcome us, since I have straight companions with me. But um, how can we be sure about that?

I threw a smile on the bouncer, and it worked. He smiled back and let us all in.

After getting the drinks from that very cute bartender, we went up and sat on one of the couches. We drank, but at the same time, talked about the meaning of the rainbow flag plastered outside Ku Bar.

Art asked me to get some technology magazines, since he saw a couple of them by the stairs. I was about to get one when I secretly giggled.

They were not tech magazines. They’re gay ones, with all the topless hunks on its front cover.

I can’t risk it. I don’t fancy giving it to him and be shocked by the guys who ooze with sheer sexiness.

----

After a couple more shots of tequila, it was time to go, with the three of them ensuring that all of my gadgets were still with me.

My head’s hurting but I was still wary of the surroundings and what the three were talking.

I bade them farewell as they went down Tottenham Court Road station. I made an excuse that I’ll take the bus instead. Unknowingly to them, I decided to have a drink for a few more hours.

The tequila must’ve seeped into my rationale thinking when I decided to go back to Wardour Street, and enter Village again, for the second time this month.

Just for fun, I decided to check how high (or really low) my face value was, by checking if someone would approach me to have a chat as the night would pass by.

I looked like a fool after ordering that cider and sitting in one corner, eyeing all the cute guys passing by. At the front were a young Oriental talking (and going really chummy) with the 40-ish Caucasian. Sitting beside me were two young Caucasian guys kissing torridly on occasions. Sitting on my left were a bloke and a gal, drinking with their rose.

I got so embarrassed when the night went by without someone approaching me, and I felt even more humiliated when the girl sitting beside me asked, “Are you ok?”

I just have her thumbs up, and she replied, “Don’t worry, be happy.”

Oh dear. I must’ve looked awful. I quickly gulped my small bottle of cider and decided to call it a night to prevent further humiliation.

And at that moment in time, as I sat on the upper deck on Bus N89, an epiphany had struck like lightning.

What the hell were Art and Gene thinking when Edric and I brought them to gay bars?

Am I already out?

And most importantly, since no one approached me it meant only one thing.

I don’t have any face value at all. 

Sick in Soho

*BLECCCHHH*

Fuck. It was soooo damn embarrassing. It was my nth time to wreak havoc by regurgitating all that I’ve eaten on Bus N155 en route to Morden.

I know that I’ve been experiencing a lot of not so good things lately but I can’t imagine I let it get the best of me, by ignoring my friend’s remarks and insisting him to buy one more bottle of rose.

Migration. Job prospect. Homesickness. Art’s evasiveness. All of these meshed together and propelled me to do what God has told me, to venture into the gay bars of Soho.

Yes, you heard it right. Gay bars of Soho. It was in Village Bar in fact, nestled on the corner of Wardour Street and Old Compton Street, London’s LGBT hub. 

Never would I imagine that I would enter this place unprepared as I haven’t even stepped foot on the cheeky streets of Malate ever before. I was told that compared to the other bars on the street, Village is more friendly to first time goers like me.

Good thing I was with a Filipino I met in PR, so that gave me that extra mile to push that door that has the rainbow-coloured flag plastered on it.

-----

About 4 hours before

“Why the hell are they eyeing us?” I asked nervously.

“It’s because we are an item in this part of the world,” the one who was accompanying me said.

Adam’s right. As soon as the bouncer let us in (damn I already look 21, since they can question you and ask for a proof of age if you look under 21), most eyes were on us. It was as if the bar held its breath as we made our way to find some seats.

“This is nothing,” Mike said as we finally found a seat and drank our Coke whisky. “Go to Kudos and we’ll see. Orientals normally don’t get out of there without getting laid." I looked really shocked but thank God he retracted the joke.

My heart and testosterone levels were fluttering as gays ranging from very cute to very hot pass by our table. Also noticeable were how some of the blokes were glancing ‘secretly’ on the both of us, to which I caught them in flagrante delicto. It was great, because finally, for the first time, I can be myself by saying “Oh that guy’s hot” without society controlling me like a puppet.

We talked about the not-so-clear future regarding our status in the UK, got to know a bit more about each other, and how the hell this gay thing works. Mike tried to teach me some tips regarding flirting, but I decided to try it at a later date. For now, observing from afar is enough.

As the night passed, more glasses were being emptied by my throat, and sure enough, the effects had started to kick in. My vision’s a bit blurred, but not enough to shy away from the very attractive guys I was seeing.

Mike then nudged me to talk to this very cute 20-ish White Briton on my right, since we noticed that he was alone drinking his glass of beer for the past hour. Well, I thought he was waiting for his boyfriend or something.

“Come on! He’s not my type, but it’s definitely yours!” He continued to nudge me.

“E, I can’t. I don’t have enough self-confidence.” Well, thanks for that good-for-nothing Sam.

Well, Fate finally unfolded itself as the cute Caucasian guy turned to us, and asked, “What time is it?”

With the effects of alcohol totally eliminating my inhibitions, I decided to give in and start an friendly conversation with him. And here’s what I got.

Damn, he has a boyfriend (as expected of a guy in this calibre). He’s a solicitor working at the Bank area, London’s financial district. He also has a flat in Holborn, which I know is God-knows-what because rents around the Central are exorbitantly priced. And, not to mention, he has another house with garden in Buckinghamshire, a county just 30 minutes away from the City.

Then, my memory has been tainted with the 20% alcohol content I just drank as I didn’t remember anything else apart from the fact that he left the bar afterwards, and we left the bar as well, with Mike helping me while I was limping, and puking around Old Compton Street.

I realised then that I wasn’t 100% drunk since I vividly remembered that one very cute Spanish guy walked towards us to ask if I was ok. And then, I puked some more around the corner.

I also remembered that Mike asked me to enter Caffé Nero since nearby Costa Coffee was already closed. And then, it all went black again except for the fact that the barista needed to usher us out as I regurgitated the hot chocolate I was drinking.

And then, we had to wait outside the bus stop near Trafalgar Square. Technically, the weather wasn’t that cold, but I was shivering. Seems the after-effects of alcohol are starting to circulate into my bloodstream.

Finally, it arrived, and after puking one more time inside Bus N155, Mike and I alighted at Elephant and Castle.

Damn it was so embarrassing indeed. I kept on apologising about how I made a fool of myself and most especially to him. After insisting nonstop that I can be ok from here, and he doesn’t need me to really accompany me to the door to my house, he finally gave in. First impressions are said to be the most important in ensuring a great friendship, and I just messed it all up.

I was about to alight the bus that would really take me home, when I was rummaging my pockets for something.

My phone.

I asked Mike to open my bag up for me to ransack its contents. No phone, nothing. Just some bottles of water and a couple of chocolate cookies.

Damn. After a few minutes, I decided to give up as we were both running late. It was five past three AM.

I literally slipped inside the bus (as I didn’t hold on to the railings properly), I finally sat down, half –conscious. Wow, for once, that constant puking really helped me by being sober. Now, I will just have to await the dreaded hangover that will greet me the next day.

It seemed to take forever, but finally, I managed to get off the bus properly, open the door, and tiptoed quietly to my room. I don’t want to wake my roomies up with that horrible stench of vomit. I didn’t even bother to change my clothes as I snuggled beneath my duvet.

Inebriation. What a vile thing. Now, I have to face the repercussions to my carelessness and imbecility.

I didn’t get to hit some more guys up. Kidding aside, I just became 170 quid poorer, humiliated myself and a friend, and I left a not-so-good memory of my first ever trip to a gay bar.

Good thing Art didn’t see me at that state, but then again, it can be great thing if he would to take good care of me while I was knocked out.

After all this, I just have one thing in mind… up my alcohol tolerance by a notch.

And with the ultimatum that Britain has placed on students like me, it’s time to frequent Soho and Vauxhall.