I’ve cultivated a multitude of multicultural fuckbuddies… like a one-man United Nations.
A diverse mix of mates means I am treated to an array of accents, experiences, and attitudes, but sometimes communications can leave me feeling like Alan Turing trying to crack the Enigma Code.
The most flummoxing messages come from an Afghani with dark auburn hair, milk coloured skin, and freckles (An exotic rarity… ‘Full of Eastern promise’, but with a ‘touch of the Blarney’). He narrates texts into his phone and just sends the resulting gobbledegook.
‘IS A BUS TIME SO IS NOT THE BUS TIME IS PASTIME THAT’S WHY I SAY’
No idea.
‘IF I COMING TOMORROW IS OKAY TODAY IS MY HOUSE IT’S A LOT OF FRIEND THAT IS WHY PLEASE’
Well, of course. No problem.
‘IF YOU PRAY TOMORROW WE CAN MEET AFTER AT 8 O’CLOCK’
Hallelujah… but, for the record, it had nothing to do with prayer, although I did wonder as he was observing Ramadan that month.
‘IF YOU WANT ME TONIGHT WE GONNA MEET BECAUSE IT’S TOMMORROW WE’RE NOT FREE SORRY SO TOMORROW WE GOING DEFINITELY WORKING SO NEED TO FREE IS TONIGHT BECAUSE NINE O’CLOCK THANK YOU VERY MUCH GOOD NIGHT’
I’ll be there on time (That one did actually make perfect sense).
‘HOW IS GOING YOUR LIFE?’
Great thanks, yours?
One message really got me scratching my head…
‘NO PROBLEM IF YOU ALREADY WE’RE GOING TO GET TONIGHT IN THE MOUNTAINSIDE FOR ONE HOUR A HALF AN HOUR IF YOU WANT TO COME TO MOUNTAINSIDE SO IMPORTANT TO THE BAR’
Mountainside? He wants to take me to the mountainside?! We live in Birmingham. There’s as much chance of finding a mountainside as catching waves at a beach. Does he want to take me up the Lickeys or dogging on Barr Beacon?
Then the penny dropped… The Fountain Inn! He wants to meet for a quick fuck at The Fountain.
This was gonna be an uphill struggle.
I have an Indonesian friend, with an infectious smile that spreads from queer to queer. I introduced him to the manager of one pub, who said, “He used to be a regular, but never knew his name… We just called him ‘Smiley’.”
His limited English means messages get lost in translation. They are best read phonetically… and in his accent to make any sense.
When I tentatively text to ask if he wanted me to correct his errors, he replied:
I had my work cut out!
One Saturday evening, my partner and I were preparing a meal at home when he messaged, ‘I’M IN BAR… ON MY SELF’
‘I SAID WE WOULD MEET TOMORROW.’
My other half wanted to drop everything and join him.
“No,” I insisted. “It’s his mistake.”
“But he’s at the bar… all on him self!”
Another occasion I received a nonsensical voice message, which contained the words ‘Passport’ and ‘Phone Number’, then just a haphazard lexicon that could have been the random answers to a crossword puzzle.
I was at work, so played the message to the receptionist, who was a close colleague.
She listened once then, without missing a beat, explained, “He is applying for a new passport, but has forgotten his online login. It is based on his old phone number, which he can’t remember. He thinks you may have it stored in your contacts. He wants you to send him his old number.”
“How did you do that?!” I gawped.
“This is a diverse neighbourhood,” she shrugged, “I deal with phone calls like this all the time.”
I sent the required info and moments later received, ‘THANK YOU. I LUB YOU SHOW MUSH’
I lub him too… with hearts and smiles.
Communications can be endearing, hilarious… and succinct:
- An Iranian informed me, “I need to release the toilet,” as he headed to the men’s room.
- A Pakistani friend enquired, “What is ‘gay scene’?! People talk ‘bout, I don’t know what is!”
After giving him a tour of Brum’s scene, I received a charming, ‘ITS LOVELY TO HAVE U.’
‘IT IS LOVELY TO HAVE YOU TOO,’ I responded.
- A Germanic trick messaged, ‘HANDSOME AND SEXY YOU ARE.’
‘THANK YOU, YODA,’ messaged back I did.
- “Are you Thai?” I asked a South East Asian guy.
He nodded wearily. “A little bit.”
“Thai… not tired,” I clarified.
“I’m both,” he sighed.
Fortunately, language is rarely a barrier to getting acquainted.
Recently, the ginger Afghani insisted on meeting at The Fountain Inn, despite me explaining it was closed on Mondays.
“I have car. I take you place.”
I’d hoped to be home within an hour.
“Come,” he insisted. “Is good place. Trust me, yes?”
Despite my better judgement, I agreed.
We ended up on a two-hour misadventure into rural Worcestershire. The journey was so convoluted that it required numerous detours, backtracking, dead ends, and a stop at a village store to pick up provisions, where he purchased a bag full of Red Bull, kitchen towels, and a packet of savoury snacks which struck me as an odd choice for a practising Muslim.
We eventually found a lover’s nest in the Lickey Hills.
Once the deed was done, we headed back to his car.
Ginger opened his snacks and popped one into his mouth, then casually asked, “Diz halal, yes?”
“No….” I said, looking at him, incredulously. “It’s a pork scratching!”
His eyes widened in alarm, and he stopped chewing. He couldn’t have chosen anything less halal if he’d tried.
“Diz pig?!” he baulked, pointing at his mouth.
“YES!””
The offending morsal was projected with speed and ferocity into a bush. As they say, ‘Pigs will fly’.
We had left the car a good distance up the hill, so began a strenuous climb back up the steep slope.
It turned out, he finally got to take me up the mountainside after all.
Tales of the Second City 