Hard men and harder decisions

I decided that the best way to celebrate my pending redundancy was to go for a few swift ones after work with Doormouse on Friday. We met up at the Retro Bar and discussed my future. He knows only too well what it's like being made redundant from my company as he met the same fate in July. It's been a good thing for him as he now has a much better job, so it's given me some hope that this could be a positive thing. We were going to head home after that - we felt like the odd ones out, being the only two people in the pub not wearing black thick-rimmed glasses - but he mentioned that there was a pub close by that he'd always wanted to go to, but had been too frightened. Intrigued, I agreed.

We trotted off to the pub in question and as soon as we walked in, I understood why he'd been so scared. It was called Halfway to Heaven - I assume it's called this because if you're walking from Trafalgar Square, it's halfway to Heaven the night club - but I think a more appropriate name might have been Halfway to Hell. Crossing the threshold, I felt like I'd signed a deal with the Devil himself as the assembled congregation was a veritable who's who of the murky underbelly of gay London.

The bar was full of scallies of every age in varying degrees of sportswear and more old men in vests than I've ever seen. It might have had a WC2 postcode, but we could've been forgiven for thinking we were in Canning Town - or worse still, Harlow. We carefully ordered two drinks from the pox-ridden barman and headed off downstairs. Descending into the basement was like entering a Jake Arnott novel - gay gangsters in expensive suits and gold jewellery, their tattooed hands strategically placed on their boyfriends' arses wearing a 'stare at my man and I'll cut your tongue out with a rusty blade' look on their faces.

Too frightened to say anything in case we were given Chelsea smiles, we sat in near silence, trying not to laugh at the poster advertising Saturday night 'cabaret' with Titty La Camp. Nipping to the toilet turned out to be the worst part of the outing as it was cruisier than George Michael on a cruise ship cruising round Mykonos. While I was in there, a gent in his late 60s and wearing a yellow vest came in and simply got his knob out and started waving it around. "Sorry, that's what happens when you've got a piercing," he explained. No, that's what happens when you're a pervert. We left shortly after.

I'm in the office now and away from criminal homos and I have to discuss the redundancy with my publisher. She wants to know whether I'm going to accept the second-rate replacement job she's offered me, or whether I want to take the pay-off and run. Saying it like that, there's no real contest.

But despite the rather unsavoury taste that was left in my mouth, all I can think about is how much fun I had in the Hell pub on Friday.

I think I might take my redundancy cheque, head down there and wait for my very own Ronnie Kray. I could definitely hang with being a gay gangster's moll.