Tales From the Gay Bar – “Blow Me A Kiss” or “The Siege of Rome”

Posted: August 25, 2013 in TFTGB
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Last week we traveled to 2009, this week we shall move on to 2010. It was three whole years ago, yet this instance stands as clear in my mind as if it happened only yesterday. It was a Friday night in the early autumn. The leaves hadn’t quite turned brown yet, but they had adopted that sickly yellow color and all Danes who knew what was best for themselves, were mentally preparing for the winter ahead. I was enjoying a night out with some assorted friends, one of them was my roommate Neil.

Back then we used to hit the gay bar before moving on to our favorite place in town, Master Bar. There were two reasons for going to the gay bar first; mainly because I got an employee discount, but also because Master Bar has two sets of clientele. The afternoon set is a bunch of alcoholics getting their daily dose and pool sharks hustling university freshmen. In the evenings it’s a much friendlier crew; a nice mix of students and working folk, mostly in their early or mid-twenties. So going to the gay bar first meant we could start the night off at a decent time and avoid the afternoon riff raff.

So it’s around midnight (why is midnight such a pivotal time? Things always happen around midnight for me) and we’re sitting at the window table in the gay bar. We’re talking of heading up in town to Master’s after draining this beer, when three guys come running up to the window from down the street. They are clearly agitated and in a fighting mood.

Where did they come from? Well, at that time, just down the street was another bar. A sports bar. I’m sure somewhere out there is a gay bar and a sports bar on the same street happily and peacefully coexisting, but this wasn’t the case here. It’s not merely that it was a sports bar, but more the fact that it was the local hooligan hangout. Oh and also that it was a bit of a drug den. It was well known that you could order drugs at the bar and they would be served along with whatever you were drinking. The local constabulary (police for the American dreamers, fucking pansersvin for the Danish autonome) was regularly found at the scene breaking up fights, taking complaints from the neighbors or doing “random” drug searches.

Side note: If we had minor trouble and the police claimed to be too busy to come by, we would call them up again and give the sports bar’s address. No more than two minutes later we would have three squad cars blocking off the street. Fixed!

As you can imagine, the types of people that frequented this place were not exactly the kind you brought home to meet the fam. Fighting was a hobby akin to philately to them and that most certainly included messing with the gays next door. We had quite a bit of trouble from their guests and we were in no way sad when their liquor license got pulled. Yes there’s a story to that as well.

Back to our friends in the street.

The three bozos outside the window on this, otherwise peaceful, Friday night wore sneakers, jeans and jerseys from the local football team. (Soccer for the BOOOOOOORN IN THE U.S.A.ians, Fussball für die wurst menschen.) Safe to say they were most likely from the lovely place down the street. They looked like they had just run away from a fight. Not a good time to provoke anyone, let alone guys that consider bashing some fags the height of a night on the town. Neil was pretty drunk and he, like most of us, doesn’t think things through when the drink kicks in.

The three guys in the street were catching their breath, one of them glanced in at us and Neil did the most beautiful, the stupidest, the greatest, the most provoking thing he could ever do.

He blows this irate hooligan a kiss.

Hooligan’s jaw drops, he stares at Neil for a second. Jaw on ground, eyes wide. And then he freaks the fuck out! He throws a punch at the (reinforced) window. The whole bar freezes as the loud BONG of fist hitting glass rings through the room. Hooligan winces in pain and almost falls on his ass. His mates are coming round to what is happening as he gestures and shouts in Neil’s direction.

One of the bartenders is quick as a flash. He pretty much vaults over the bar and locks the door from the inside only a second before the handle turns and fists start pounding the wood. Everyone in the bar is dead quiet. Everyone except Neil and I. We are laughing our asses off like two demented hyenas.

The bartenders and other guests do not find it amusing at all. We are under siege and I swear I nearly peed my pants from laughing so hard. The police have to be called to calm down the Ostrogothics and the guests had to be let out through the backdoor (no homo). The next time Neil came by the bar he was not welcomed with open arms, but he claims it was way more than worth it.


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