I got accosted by a religious fruitcake (is there any other kind?) last night. There I was, minding my own, chomping on a Chocolate Hazelnut Crunch Atkins Advantage bar (19 whole grams of protein. I want tits like Cindy Crawford’s), when a small kind of person edged towards me, from the right. He had blond hair, blue eyes and colour in his cheeks. So far, so not the crazy religiouses I’m used to.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you from round here?’
There followed what can only be described as an overlong silence whilst I chewed and swallowed. Made even longer by the fact that I was suffering from performance anxiety because he just stood, and watched, and smiled, and watched, and stood.
‘Kind of,’ I said, a little bit of hazelnut popping out for dramatic effect. I didn’t want to commit to being from anywhere in case, well, you know, it’s just… Okay, I’m northern. Happy now?
‘I’m just trying to get the bus to Leyton [I know, me neither] and was wondering whether or not I was at the right stop.’
Well far be it for him to actually do any work and check the, I don’t know, bus timetable! Instead he decides to make it my problem. (I’m all for civil spirit, but he just wasn’t attractive enough.)
‘Yes, this is the one. You get off at the very last stop.’
I must admit, at this point, to being a little bit chuffed that I was a) able to help and b) do so with actual correct information. Normally, when asked directions by strangers, I become overwhelmed with a sense of duty; I just don’t want to disappoint. So I just say anything. And bearing in mind I once drove an hour the wrong way round the M25 before it dawned on me, I’m not known for my sense of direction.
‘So, you been in London long?’ he continued. Like I say, he just didn’t seem the type. Alarm bells were still on mute.
‘Oh, you know, blah.’ (You really don’t need all the information. Don’t know about you, but there’s a drink with my name all over it.)
‘It’s funny,’ he continued. (Is it?) ‘When I began this journey of…’
Wait just one cotton-picking minute, mister-sister! I’d heard this hate talk before.
‘Blah blah blah,’ his journey went. ‘Blah blah blah blah Los Angeles.’
LA? Crazy talk? Baby Jesus Christ, he was a Scientologist! Hence the total gay look! This I had to hear…
‘I met this man and he just turned my life around…’ Tom? John? Will? Peaches Geldof?
‘I was really lost. Drinking too much, drugs, women, I just didn’t know who I was. Then I started reading the Bible.’
There it was, the B word. The guy wasn’t a Scientologist after all… I mean, he looked too poor for a start. Jesus just wanted him for a sunbeam!
‘What do you do in your spare time,’ he asked, eyes rolling into the back of his head.
‘Men and vodka.’
He looked me up and down, like he’d just scraped me off the bottom of his very sensible flat shoes, and handed me a card.
‘NEED SOMEONE TO TALK TO? THE HOLY CHURCH OF CRAZY CAN HELP! 0800, ETC.’
I paraphrase. It’s hard to make out the words when you’re using it as a stopper in a bottle of Amyl Nitrate.
Stephen Unwin – Showbiz Journalist & Showbiz-i Writer with Sparkle
