The other night, I just had to leave the flat and go jogging. Otherwise I'd smoke.
So, off I went, across London, to Hyde Park (dead), and then back... past a gay bar. Barcode. What a perfect place for a breather.
I bumped into Mark, out with a TV director called Jerome, who was muscly, French, and very outgoing.
Jerome was snogging a taxi-driving opera singer he'd just met. A few minutes later, he had his hands on the trousers of someone else.
Mark was distracted. "See that man over there? The guy who looks like a Brazilian rent boy?"
I'd only noticed that he was smoking a lovely cigarette.
"Either he's got a very large mobile phone, or the penis of an elephant."
Jerome glanced over. "Monstrosity!" he shouted, and marched over to the Brazilian, had a whispered conversation, smiled, and then turned back to us, his hands far apart in the universal sign of The Whistfully Estimating Angler.
Mark and I gasped. The Brazilian grinned.
Jerome came back over. "Oh, it's real!" He shrugged. "Anyway, I'm off to the loos. He's said he'll show me it."
He was gone for quite a while.
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