Hugh searched in his bag and said, “You look tense but I’ve got just the thing.” He took out some incense sticks and lit the end of one with a lighter. The incense started to burn, releasing a plume of smoke that snaked towards the ceiling.
“Here Tony, breathe some of this in. It’ll help you to relax.” Tony waved Hugh away silently, but Hugh ignored his protests and placed the incense sticks next to Tony’s bed.
“Are you looking forward to the big welcome party tonight?”
“What welcome party?”
“Oh, you’ll love it. It’s the biggest party of the year. It’s themed, you know.” Tony raised his head without interest but acknowledged Hugh’s answer. “Have you got your outfit planned?” enquired Hugh.
“Yes,” Tony answered. “I’m wearing it.”
“Well, if the theme is the 1970s you can go as the construction worker from the Village People,” Hugh offered positively. “Wait until you see my outfit.” He took his shirt and trousers off, stood there in his underpants and socks and continued to chat. Tony turned away, not knowing exactly where to look. Hugh took his socks off and folded them neatly on the bed. “Ooh, nice deep shag!” he said sensuously.
“What!” shrieked Tony.
“The carpet, it’s a nice deep shag. It feels wonderful under my feet. They spare no expense here you know. They only use the best furnishings.”
“Oh right, right.” Tony was relieved but visibly shaken.
Hugh looked over to the other side of the room at a student with blonde hair and blue eyes and tapped his nose at him to let him in on the joke. The blonde stopped what he was doing and walked over to Hugh.
“Hallo. My name is Uwe.”
“Oh, you’re foreign, how exciting,” Hugh exclaimed and clapped his hands together. “I’m Hugh,” and he then gestured at Tony and said, “and this is my friend Tony. Tony meet Uwe.”
There was a momentary pause and then Uwe spoke in the cold, expressionless voice of a Bond villain: “We’ve already met!” Tony looked up in disbelief as the colour drained from his face.
“Oh, Bollocks!”
Chapter Five
The residents of the Larry Grayson Boudoir descended the grand staircase together, seven young men dressed to kill, followed closely by a reluctant shadow. You could tell that each of the seven had agonised over every element of their outfit. Every inch of skin had been exfoliated, every pore deep-cleansed.
They were late. Of course, they’d tell people that they were fashionably late, but the reality was that they’d fought for bathroom and mirror time. Their aftershaves mingled and collectively, they smelt like a department store perfume counter. Behind them skulked Tony, like a wart on their backsides, the antithesis of all they stood for: unkempt, unwashed, unshaven and unprepared. He’d worn what he’d arrived in and what he would probably sleep in that night too. He was late because he didn’t want to go and he would not have gone without Hugh convincing the other six room-mates that they should offer a united front. Together they had forced Tony to join them. Tony hadn’t brought aftershave or even deodorant and he and his clothes smelt of cigarettes and body odour.
As the motley crew approached the main hall, they could hear muffled music and occasionally were hit with a sudden burst of clear, crisp sound as someone opened the door and let the melody escape. They could feel the bass pounding in their stomachs. As they neared the hall they composed themselves, each knowing that judgement was coming as soon as they stepped over the threshold – although one member of the gang’s feelings were the polar opposite of the other seven.
“Here we go!” cried Hugh, as if going into battle. “Here and now boys, here and now.”
Hugh surged forward and threw the doors open. Seven stood together, framed in the doorway. Tony stooped, trying to remain inconspicuous. Hundreds of eyes scanned them, rated them and then returned to what they had been doing immediately before their grand entrance ‒ gossiping about the latest arrivals.
“For God’s sake, don’t hang about,” growled Tony, “just head for the bar. I need a bloody drink.” They walked across and joined the crowd, shuffling together and attempting to gain the barman’s attention. Hugh pushed against a tide of fabulously dressed bodies, aiming for a nook against the bar, but the tide washed him back time after time. Five others of the group found themselves in a similar situation. Tony was torn between his dire need for a strong alcoholic drink and the repulsion of pushing himself into a sea of homosexual bodies and so he bobbed uncomfortably on the periphery, unable to take the plunge. Uwe on the other hand had achieved the impossible and slid his muscular body effortlessly through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. The others, like Israelites, witnessed this miracle and sidled in behind him. Uwe shouted over to the barman in a manner that to a German seemed authoritative but to the English ear sounded plain rude. It nevertheless got the job done and the barman signalled to Uwe that he would be serving him next.
“Christ, Uwe,” Tony laughed respectfully, “you’re a handy bugger to have around.”
“Literally,” said Hugh.
The barman finished serving his customer and made his way over to Uwe and the gang. “What can I get you boys?”
Hugh seized the opportunity to impress with his wit and repartee, “Boys! No, no, boys won’t suffice, but you can get us some men!”
Tony shuddered, Uwe stared blankly, the others laughed uncomfortably, and the barman sighed. “Very original, now what can I get you?”
“Babycham, please,” Hugh answered sheepishly.
“Pinotage,” said Uwe.
“Rioja” … “Chardonnay” … “Vodka with lime” … “The same for me” … “And me!” … “Pina colada”… shouted the others one after another.
“What’ll you have?” the barman asked Tony.
“Beer.”
“This isn’t the Dog and Duck, darling,” said the barman, “we don’t do beer.”
“Bloody hell, no beer? How the hell am I going to cope here? What have you got then?”
“I’ve got Slippery Nipples, but I can recommend the Screaming Orgasm for you!”
“Ergh, you bent bastard!” cried Tony in disgust.
“Oh, the cat’s got claws. Some people have no sense of humour.” The barman was mildly offended by his rebuttal.
Uwe leant over the bar. “Just order him a Dirty White Mother. It will be more in keeping with his heterosexual sensibilities.” The barman nodded.
“That explains it then,” he said and went off to complete the order. The others stood silently, watching Tony.
“What?” remarked Tony defensively, “don’t expect an apology!” The barman returned with the drinks and Uwe paid him.
“Keep the change.” The barman thanked him and Uwe handed out the drinks. He passed Tony his cocktail, complete with umbrella and a sparkler.
“Huh, even the drinks are gay,” commented Tony acerbically as he discarded the paraphernalia.
They walked over and found a space to sit where they could talk. Tony surveyed the hall; occasionally a disco light would shine briefly into his eyes, making him squint. The room was a modern yet retro. The décor was primarily black, accented with pink and blue neon strips. It was better than the normal fleapit nightclubs that he had been to, and he was silently impressed.
“Pretty impressive isn’t it?” Hugh said, noticing Tony’s appraisal.
“It seems strangely familiar though,” Tony said, trying to work out why this could possibly ring any bells to him.
“You dark horse, Tony,” accused Hugh.
Tony began to protest but Hugh interrupted. “No need to protest, it’s homage to the film Cocktail with Tom Cruise.”
“Ah yes, that would explain it,” Tony replied.
“Big fan of Tom Cruise are you Tony?” mocked Hugh.
“Nope, but my ex was. Ex-girlfriend … that is,” he added quickly.
Hugh nodded and changed the subject. “Shall I introduce you to the others?”
“Nonsense Tony, don’t be such a misery guts.” He clapped his hands to gain everyone’s attention. They all stopped their conversations and looked at Hugh, frowning at his interruption.
“Come on everyone let’s take a few moments to find out a little bit about each other.” The others started to nod but before anyone else had the chance to speak, Hugh began. “My name’s Hugh and I’m going to be famous!” He then fell silent, appearing to wait for some sort of affirmation or applause from his assembled court but instead he was confronted with confused expressions.
After a few moments Uwe spoke up. “Famous for what?”
Hugh motioned vaguely at them. “Oh I don’t know, singing, dancing, TV presenting, acting, you know, just something like that.”
Tony laughed. “So you’ve got it all planned out then I see.” The rest of the group chuckled.
“Well, I was born to be famous, I can just feel it in my soul,” he carried on regardless. “I just need a chance, that’s all.” Hugh stopped and was silent for a moment. His concentration turned inward and he was momentarily lost in his own thoughts.
“Martyrdom is the only way a man can become famous without ability,” Uwe said coldly.
Hugh coughed uncomfortably, unsure how to respond to that statement. “Uwe, tell us a little something about yourself then.”
Uwe placed his hands upon the table in a deliberate manner and the group waited for him to speak. He began clearly and slowly. “My name is Uwe.”
“How do you spell that?” interrupted Hugh.
“U-W-E,” he said, carefully pronouncing each letter.
“But that spells Yoo-Wee,” Hugh said, scratching his head.
Uwe smiled, displaying his full set of pearly teeth, not looking dissimilar to a shark before it attacks. “It may come as a surprise to you to learn that I am not from this island,” Uwe patronised. “I am from Germany, which is a country in Europe. Europe is that landmass that you British strangely refer to as ‘The Continent’.” He paused for a moment and no one dared to speak. “On this Continent we speak a number of different languages, German being the tongue of my people.” Uwe addressed the assembled group as if speaking to children. “Now please prepare yourself, for this may come as a little bit of a shock, but we ‘Europeans’,” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “tend to pronounce things differently to you people on this island. For example, we pronounce the letter U as ‘ooh’, like boo. We pronounce the letter W as ‘vay’ and the letter E as ‘ay’. So Uwe is spelt U-W-E but pronounced ‘ooh-vay’.
Hugh scratched his head. “Oh, okay, I see,” but then he looked at Tony and shrugged.
“Anyway,” Uwe continued with a certain amount of agitation, “I am here on an exchange programme. This school is known throughout the world as one of the finest academies, like Oxford and Cambridge, or at least that was my impression before I met you guys.” Uwe looked down his nose at each of them and almost strained a muscle when he looked at Tony. “I will study hard here and graduate with flying colours. It is no pigment of your imagination that I am the most glorious example of a homosexual that you have ever met!” Uwe started to speak in hushed tones. “In some circles they call me the ‘überschwule!’”
Tony smirked and nudged Hugh.
“What the hell is he talking about? What the hell is an überschwule?”
Hugh giggled. “I’ve got no idea.”
Uwe shot them a look of disapproval. “Anyway, that is my story.”
Hugh and Tony sniggered in unison before Tony remembered where he was and stopped abruptly. Hugh continued to giggle like a schoolgirl until he self-consciously realised that he was the only one laughing. He clapped his hands and bellowed, “Next!”
“Well, I guess that’ll be me,” declared a deep treacly voice.
“And who are you?” simpered Hugh.
“I am Gareth.”
Hugh appraised Gareth, his dress sense was impeccable. From his tennis shoes up to the Arabian scarf that hung effortlessly from his neck, he was style personified. His ripped low-slung jeans and skinny-fit white t-shirt were complemented flawlessly by the crumpled, checked suit jacket. It was like looking at the sun, Hugh thought, it almost burned his eyes it was so perfect, but he looked on with a wanton disregard for the safety of his eyesight.
“You really are a beautiful bastard, aren’t you Gareth?” Hugh flattered.
Gareth’s nostrils flared at the compliment. “Thank you, Hugh,” he said graciously.
Obviously this wasn’t the first time he’d heard this said. Hugh smiled and stared at Gareth waiting for him to return the compliment. When nothing came, he coughed and nodded expectantly at Gareth.
A puzzled look inhabited Gareth’s face for a split second before the penny dropped and he smiled warmly at Hugh and said, “You’re not so bad yourself.”
A huge grin quickly spread across Hugh’s face. “Oh, you,” he said slapping Gareth’s right shoulder. “Oooh,” declared Hugh, “someone’s been working out!” He squeezed Gareth’s deltoid and nodded to confirm his observation was true. Some of the group leant over and poked and prodded various parts of Gareth’s upper body.
“What’s your secret?” enquired Hugh.
“There’s no secret really, I just work hard at it, that’s all.”
“But what’s your regime?” Hugh probed.
“Well, I recently went on the Caveman Diet for a month,” Gareth revealed.
“What’s that then?” asked Hugh.
Gareth began to explain. “If I didn’t grow it or kill it myself then I simply didn’t eat anything.”
Tony laughed. “And how did that work out for you?”
“There was some success, but not as much as I’d hoped actually,” Gareth’s cheeks coloured slightly as he explained. “I was arrested for stealing vegetables from someone’s allotment, but luckily they dropped the charges. Also I was admitted to hospital on two separate occasions after fainting in public.”
“You robbed vegetables from allotments?”
“When was the last time you saw a carrot or a cabbage growing in the wild? Seriously, how on earth did cavemen survive?” He laughed as he patted his wafer-thin waist. “But the results speak for themselves, don’t they.”
Tony slapped Gareth on the back and said, “I like your style, Captain Caveman.”
“Is that all though? Did you just not eat?” Hugh queried, “There must be more to it than that.”
Gareth nodded. “Absolutely. In addition I run fifteen kilometres every morning, swim fifty lengths every evening and when I am not at the gym or aerobics classes, I work as a dancer in a strip joint.”
“Gay or straight?” asked Hugh.
“Well, straight actually. But don’t judge me too harshly, those housewives can’t wait to part with their money and they’re not as judgemental as the clientele in a gay strip joint. Working at a gay club does nothing for your self-esteem!” Hugh nodded in agreement, though he’d never been to a strip joint, straight or gay. “Also, I haven’t eaten any carbohydrates in years,” Gareth added with longing in his voice, “I would kill for a bowl of pasta with some garlic bread.”
Uwe retorted, “Well some people have to work at it and others are just born perfect I guess.”
“Thanks for the compliment Uwe, I’m glad you consider me perfect, but you give me too much credit,” Gareth responded cordially.
Uwe grunted.
“So tell us more,” Hugh demanded.
“Well, my dream is to become a stylist. You know, dressing the rich and famous.”
“You could be my stylist when I get discovered,” Hugh blurted, trying to steer the conversation back to him again.
“Sure, just as soon as you’ve decided what you want to be let me know and I’ll make you look fabulous!” Gareth replied, with a hint of friendly sarcasm.
“Deal!” cried Hugh completely missing this gentle dig and they shook hands.
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The next to speak appeared younger that the rest of the group. He was tall, slim and had an impish smile, which occasionally flickered across his face for no apparent reason. He coughed twice and pulled on the bottom of his suit jacket to straighten out any creases. “I’m Bruce and I’m from up North …” he started with a strong accent.
“Up North!” snapped Uwe. “Can you be a little more specific for your international friends? That means nothing to me.”
“Yorkshire! Does tha want the bloody post code an’ all?” came the response, in a broad Yorkshire accent.
“That is not necessary, I am familiar enough with your geography but ‘up North’ is a little too fuzzy for me,” replied Uwe.
Bruce continued, attempting to soften his accent. “I’m here because there’s nothing sexy about a Yorkshire accent and I am hoping that they’ll teach me how to drop it. I knows that we’ve all got a cross to bear but I am tired of sounding like I’ve just come to the nightclub straight from t’pit. It just don’t sound right.” The impish smile made a momentary appearance again. “Has tha tried chattin’ someone up wi’ accent like mine?” He playfully leant over to Gareth and, putting on his broadest Yorkshire accent, “Does tha know that tha’s given us the reet horn!” The group laughed hysterically. Uwe shrugged, unable to follow the conversation.
“See what I mean,” he gestured with his hands to the group, “who’d take that seriously?” They nodded affably in agreement with Bruce. “That’s the first reason I’m here.” The playful smile faltered and was quickly replaced with a darker expression. “The other reason is that I want to live a little, if tha knows what I mean.” The others quietened to listen. “I moved down South because everyone in Yorkshire goes on about all them Southern poofters, but I must confess there aren’t as many down here as I was led t’ believe.” He looked at them all to see if they got his meaning as he dangled his bait. There was an awkward silence. Nothing was biting tonight.
As the uncomfortable quiet lingered, Bruce started to blush. Then, to break the silence, he spoke. “Oh, and the other reason I am here is that I got kicked out of the RAF.”
Future Queens of England Page 4