About last night...

I finally met up with the beloved Mark (previous boy rating: 0/10).

Discovered that he's split up from his boyfriend. Hurrah.
But has a new one. Boo.
... Who is ginger. Hiss.

Anyway, we had a lovely, cultured evening - we drank in Rupert St (shocking, vile pit of amphetamines, rent and ISAs), and then went to a quiet Italian restaurant, shared a glass of dessert wine, and then wandered off for just a final drinkie.

It was a this point that I explained to Mark my mission for the year - to go to exciting, interesting, or different places. Mark grinned, grabbed a copy of a gay paper and announced "Let's go somewhere filthy."

I should point out that when Mark says "filthy" he says it in a light Scots accent - so it sounds like slow-moving honey, a genteel trickle of fine whisky, and the warm embrace of a tartan travelling rug.

Which is why we ended up in XXL. Which is a club for large gentlemen. Large, hairy bouncy castles. Mark and I looked out of place, and proceeded to get hammered. It didn't help that we fancied the barmen, who were pretty.

JAMES: Where in Wales are you from?
BAR-TOTTY: Pontypreith.
MARK: Hahaah! Were you the only gay in the village?
MARK AND JAMES LAUGH AS THEY ARE FUNNY.
PRETTY BARMAN GOES AND SNOGS SOMETHING WITH A HANDLEBAR MOUSTACHE.

We got drunker and drunker, and then went to explore the back room, where a lot of fat, hairy men were rubbing bits of each other. It looked like sofas mating.

And then, oddly, and after eighteen months of build-up, we started to have sex. Um. Surrounded by sweatily advancing truckers.

It was more most unusual. Made even odder by the fact that, as we left, we saw a rather fit attractive man called Gavin. Who we took home with us.

Gavin was from South Africa. We asked him what, exactly, a lean muscle machine with a gorgeous arse was doing in a club for the chubby.

"I thought XXL meant large penis," he explained.