Gay. Jewish. Liebe Bratwurst.

Chapter One

A Date With The Night

" ... My goldfish died today."

Maria Levy was seventeen, around five feet two and had an outlook on life that was the equivalent to a sad smiley emoticon. Her oily black hair was bunched into a limp ponytail, her skin meagre beige, and her nose a smooth hook that curled forward before expanding on her wide nostrils. Even if you made a casual murmur of, "Just goin' tae the bathroom," you could feel her beady deep brown eyes leering into you as you stumbled out of her bedroom and to the nearest toilet. Her lips were always puckered in an upside down Cupid's bow so that she had a permanently depressed expression tattooed on her face. Her dumpy frame was often enlarged with baggy, stained smocks and her legs accentuated in a not-so-flattering fashion in tie-dye drainpipes. The truth was, she could be pretty if she tried. She could let her hair down, buy some flattering fits and smile every now and then. I mean, seriously; she could be. But her? And general pure bliss? Two subjects that didn't particularly merge together very well.

Today was a day where I was obliged to visit her, despite my reluctance, and it didn't seem to look as though the atmosphere would improve too greatly. She was hunched over on her bed, her face in her podgy hands, as she repeated, more belligerently this time, "My goldfish died today."

"... so ... that sucks? Well, how have you been coping?" I stretched out my legs as I scanned the bedroom for something interesting to take her mind off the traumatising experience. A laptop stained with neon insults scrawled over in marker pens. A Nintendo DS. A scrapbook that had cutouts of supermodels glued to the front. Eurgh. This bedroom was the exact image that I conjured whenever I heard the word "prissy" - creamy white wallpapers with rose decorated patterns, fluorescent pink duvet covers with silver silk outlines of running horses embroidered on them, porcelain dolls lined up on each marble shelf, their glassy eyes boring into me along with models of ponies and teddy bears neatly aligned in a row. The only evidence that this girl was genuinely seventeen was the stashes of Heat! magazines that were tucked away, in fear of tarnishing the Jewish Princess facade.

"Coping? Eh, how do you think I've been coping?" Her lethal weapon of choice (i.e., a smelly pair of four year old socks) whacked me at the back of the head as I scuttled around and screwed up my face at her. "Idiot."

"Takes one tae know one!" I grinned back, and tossing them in her face; she winced in utmost disgust as she sneered at me, "Eww. Don't throw them at me; they're so gross."

"Ahahaha. They're yours, go deal." I stuck my tongue out at her, in hope for her to appreciate the humour. But alas, Maria is completely void of humour whatsoever. Instead, she just sulked and retorted back, "Whatever. Don't argue with me, for God's sake. I really, y'know, don't need that kind of behaviour. Why don't you recognise that? Ohmigod. You're so not tactful, do I even bother with you?!" She then swivelled around and whipped her pastel blue mobile out and texted manically to some (possibly nonexistent) pen pal from a foreign country. I then let my eyes roam the bedroom eyeing up the Victorian clock, wishing for my inclined hour with her to end. I had arrived here around three thirty and now it had hit four twenty. Fucking yasss. Just ten minutes to go, and I could whiz straight out of the Levy's and jump back into my normal social environment, where I would be surrounded with people who actually appreciate me! Thank Christ!

But y'know, not really. Because I don't believe in him.

But otherwise, as I was observing the clock with a ravenous passion, Maria then coughed loudly and I reluctantly tilted my head in her direction. "Rocco ... why are you so interested in my goldfish dying?"

"I was just wondering how you were, because you seemed rather bummed about it. I doubt you would have mentioned it to me if you hadn't cared," I shrugged nonchalantly, but Maria threw a filthy look at me as she gripped her mobile so tightly it could have been crushed into powder. Is she ever good natured about anything?

"I was just stating it," Maria spat; little flecks hit my face as she did so. Eurgh.

"Yeah, say it; don't spray it!"

"You didn't need to ask. It's not important, or anything. Whatever. I'm going to Brooke's, anyway." She then grabbed her ivory, Louis Vuitton snakeskin handbag and trotted out of her bedroom, her Croydon facelift dangling behind her as she then slammed the door on me, then wheedling on the phone, "Broooooke!Ohmigod, hi loser! Things at my house are shit - there's nothing to do ..."

"And good riddance," I muttered, as I heard her slam the front door on her way out. This is what I considered my Hour of Depression every Saturday - my compulsory visits to Maria Levy's house to "entice the flame." Or that's how my parents considered it. The Levys had been close family friends of my mothers for what felt like yonk ago - my mother had met Roberta Gold over noodles and weak tea during their years at university, ever since she married Gerald Levy, felt it was obligatory to build the perfect dream of uniting both Jewish families - the Levys and the Carsons - by having their darling little son pair up with their darling little daughter, altogether to strengthen the faith of God throughout the bonding in their conquest, in order to somehow prove to Him that they had spread the religion throughout the entire family and were willing to add more population to the Jewish community. But there's just one glitch in their plan, y'know? There's just that little barrier in my interests that prevents my supposedly romantic interludes with Maria from allowing me to conform to this desired plot of my parents. This assumed "loving relationship." For what my parents are completely oblivious to is something that impacts on me more so than them, despite whether they believe it violates the tradition or whatnot ...

I crave the cock.

Lots of it.

And I find it actually so amusing that they're completely oblivious to it whatsoever. I mean, c'mon; instead of having posters of topless, scantily clad "performers" (i.e., attractive girls with half a singing voice who can writher around a pole on stage), I had posters of Johnny Depp, Gerald Butler and Hugh Jackman plastered all over my bedroom, some with their tops whipped off. I've never taken a serious interest in sport, except from the obligatory badminton at Physical Education, which was a haven to weak muscled and limp-wristed alike. I've never been in a fistfight, I hate Stella Artois and most beers with the exception of cider, and I avoid video games like George W Bush avoids a LGTB equality parade in Texas. I have never dated a girl since Year Eight, and that lasted two weeks. Hell, I preen my hair, wear Stargazer shimmer on clubbing nights and gossip like a pensioner on a caffeine kick. How is it any less evident?

Then again, it's not exactly blatantly obvious either. Most of my closest friends do not consist of a gaggle of giggling girls, but mainly males, the majority heterosexual. The idea of trailing along chain store by chain store on a Saturday afternoon does not appeal to me whatsoever, and I'm quite talented when it comes to arithmetic, scientific and more technical studies. I don't throw the limp wrist around like a badly sealed flag when I'm deep in discussion, and I'm not exactly the most promiscuous of homosexuals - so far, I've only engaged in one relationship with a boy called Roger Clapalm that lasted at least three months, and I still haven't lost my virginity, whether it be from male or female. I down Strongbow like there's no tomorrow and I also tend to held very little interest for the Performing Arts - no, I don't sing, I don't dance, and don't put on a performance for the world to see.

So here is our first introduction. I'm Rocco Carson. It's an awesome name.

As I am shuffling down the curving wooden staircase of the Levy's, I can give you a description of myself, through the distant reflection of the agate framed, elongated mirror facing towards me as I thank the Levy's for their company as it is "always a joy" (i.e., always a chore) and stroll past: okay, I'm wearing my favourite electric blue hooded jacket with the lime yellow lightening bolts scattered everywhere, over my CSS T-shirt and my crimson drainpipes along with my canvas shoes elaborately illustrated with Tipp-Ex stars and revolving planets, my stripy purple and black socks poking out. My hair is collar-length, black, usually accompanied with a sideways choppy fringe that I tuck behind my ears and jagged at the ends, and I have wide, blue eyes that always seem to have a permanently startled fix. My nose is thin, upturned and widens at the nostrils, and my lips are full and pearly pink, and for some bizarre reason, always appear to be puckered. And if you want to add more to the description, I have a scrawny frame and a relatively weak chin.

Eurgh. I am a strange looking bastard.

It's like, I'm not exactly a wretched beast in appearance, but a lot of my softer, facial features tend to emasculate me. I could pass for a fifteen year girl if I tried. And the reason this irks me, is well, because let's face it: if you're a gay male, you're mainly attracted to males, and you'll be looking for someone who resembles a male, not a female - or a hybrid of both. This has caused me a few inconveniences. Sometimes, I'm walking down Union Street, Glasgow with my friends in the evening and then I hear thunderous wolf-whistles from a group of university students. "Aiiiiiiiiiiight, babe? Fancy a drink?" And as ridiculous as it is for them to be behaving like that after graduating high school, I'm still doing a little dance mentally due to their interest. I hear a distant murmur from my pal Rodney, "Think they're addressing you, Rocco," and I prepare to grab my chances - but alas, as I swivel around in hope of opportunity for a possible hook-up, the expression on their gormless faces deflates as they realise they may have preyed on the wrong bait. "Aww, soz, mate, didnae know that ye wuz a man," they grunt, and then descend into the streets, turning at the corner and grumbling something along the lines of how males should be refrained from wearing tight jeans.

I assume there are probably those who find feminine facial features on males attractive, as they probably perceive it as some form of balance to their masculine frame. Unfortunately, the only people who ever find that attractive around my area are sixteen-year-old faghags who, whenever I happen to attend a DeathDisco rave, hurl themselves at me and pinch my cheeks and coo, "Ohmigod, yous is drop, dead gorgeous! Yer a wee stunner, dahlin'! How could any man resist you?" Very easily, might I add mentally?

Mind you, these girls obviously get the jist that I'm seeking for men only whenever a tall, wide-shouldered muscular man with glossy locks, adorned with metallic facial paint plastered over half his face strides past, where I'll lick my lips ostensibly and catch their glance; these are the typical, and most delectable men that can be found at raves these days. Because there are so many shimmying dancing drag queens and femmy indie twinks from Bristol that, let's face it, remind me far too much of myself to be considered remotely fanciable, who else but the gorgeous non-scene eccentrics with archetypal male body types and angular, defined features to lust over? Face it, I'm getting everything I want here - a beautiful, masculine bloke who'll be open-minded enough to kiss you back if you're eager, with enough meat to grab onto while you're dry-humping him in an abandoned corner of a club, who'll probably share similar interests with me so at least we had some form of conversation - mid dry-fuck - probably consisting of the upcoming Klaxons gig, the actors we'd most like to fuck and possibly Pythagoras triangles if we even fancied ...

... but the problem is, I never have the nerve to even talk to them! A conversation will spring when my friend Milo ends up practically dragging me by the ear over to a possible conquest and he'll begin the conversation for me, him all bright eyes with a wide grin practically touching his ears, casually introducing us: "Hi, there! This is my friend Rocco, your biceps make his bollocks tight and he wants to fuck you hard." And then he'll swan away in all his anti-social glory as he heads over to the table that I was previously sitting at, with Wayne, Aaron, Jason and Rodney as I clear my throat nervously to begin.

Here is an extract of the sort of conversation that continuously repeats itself whenever I have a date with the night and I have the misfortune to be introduced by Milo to a guy I may find cute:

Me: "Well, hello ... sorry about that ... Milo's probably high on weed, he usually is."

Him: "Yeah ... kinda awkward."

Me: "What he meant was ... well ... umm, yeaarh ... nah, I apologise for the inconvenience."

Him: "Indeed."

Mmmhmm. The sexual tension is just ever so tangible. You could cut a knife straight through it ...

Pffffft. Aye right.

Nice to know there is a change in weather as I rush down the pavement to reach the bus stop and catch a 38 to Glasgow; the sun is creaking out of the pallid, lumpy clouds and rays of light are beaming down on the grass of the front porch of the white-brick terraces that I'm racing past; they glisten a translucent emerald in the sun, accentuated by the light. You become much more appreciative of these little changes of nature when you're released from a stuffy little bedroom at 27 degrees that's China Dolls Galore and reeks of cheap perfume possibly composed out extract of rose and vanilla, talcum powder and washing up liquid solely used for cleaning domestic animals. As I loom around the beaten-down bus stop, I can't help smirking in amusement at the slurs engraved into the windows of the shelter: "T.B and J.L 4eva"; "Becky C is a fugly prossie"; "Hibs beatz Hearts any day so fuck off ya glaikit bastards!" Oh! And the ever so loquacious "Get tae fuck Big D." It's quite comical imagining that despite the exhilarating evolution of humankind beyond the years, there are still those who hold the intellect of a spanner ...

Oh, finally! As I register the 38 bus turning around the corner, I throw my left arm out and wait for it to halt, fumbling in my pocket for at least £1.20 to get into Glasgow. Scurrying up the stairs to the top deck, I plummeted myself at the front seats, my hands rubbing along the orange and olive green tarten mesh cushions as I sunk into the seat, watching all the houses and terraces soar by in a grainy blur. It really is a huge weight off your shoulders when your hour of consoling hormonal teenage girls over their late household pets is up and you have the freedom to escape from all these petty melodramas of the world and just screw about in town with your nearest and dearest, whether it's just lolling about in Glasgow Green with a bottle of Smirnoff or heading down to a club after ten, or even just having a smoke at Costa and discussing all the possible occurring events in our lives so far ... anything to just feel genuinely alive. And anything to be away from the intolerable bundle of misery known as Maria Levy ...

Oh.

Shit.

Fucking.

Hell.

Alfred Friedman.

Alfred Friedman, with his silvery blonde hair side-parted immaculately, with his ivory skin luminous in the sunlight beaming down on the bus; Alfred Friedman with his vivid cornflower blue eyes; Alfred Friedman with his soft, straight nose, delectable full lips and angular features; Alfred Friedman with his robust frame of six foot two, adorned in muted khaki shirts that just clung to his pectoral muscles and trimmed black gabardine trousers that accentuated his thick legs lovingly, and just skimmed around his pert arse ...

Shit, Rocco. Don't let yourself get carried away here! It's just physical attraction! Nothing more - nothing more ...

Oh, who was I kidding? Alfred Friedman had been the object of my obsession for hmm, say ... since the beginning of my year at Glasgow University? He was the first person I had laid my eyes upon since finding him in the lecture hall for my course on Mathematics Applied to Life Science. Yes, you heard. For two months, I'd been lusting over this ravishing speciman for the first moment I had knowledge of his existence, and I was on an uninterrupted quest to win his heart (and lose my virginity). His perfection was in all the right categories for man material - high intelligence (so far he had excelled at our course and received all As in his Highers and Advanced Highers), charismatic (from overhearing him in conversations with other cohorts of his), good health (eyeing up those triceps of his gave me a good indication of this) and God knows he was a treasure when it came to the physical appearance department. Hell, he was almost idyllic. Who else better than the Schöner traumshiff that had placed his buttocks on the seat parallel to mine to be my first conquest ... ?

Well, that's where my quest comes to a halt. Y'see, the one little gap that sandwiches itself between me and my darling Alfred from beginning any form of a relationship is one that is reliant on my background, my sexuality and well ... just my entire existence in general.

He's a white nationalist with Aryan beliefs. He believes in the Nazi ideology; that the Aryan race were superior, and that there's a certain structure to who reigns power in society, and he perceives Jews as one of lowest ranks in our society. He believes that Adolf Hitler was a good man with good intentions for Germany, and that absolute horrors of the Holocaust were exaggerated. Meaning that everything I represent, he's completely against. And everything he represents, I loathe entirely. And he's, well ... he's supportive of it.

In overall, he's a son of a bitch and Nazi fucking scum.

But something convinces me that he's not full-heartedly supportive of his beliefs ... something tells me that he's just abiding to his parent's beliefs, just sidling along by his father's side to please his folks. Basically, because he's descent from Nazis, he has to follow the beliefs religiously by default. And, well, I have this theory because ... he always appears reluctant to take part in campaigning his beliefs, and doesn't exactly impose his ideology onto others. I remember the first time we met, he was sitting upright in the lecture hall, darting his eyes around anxiously with a David Lane book in hand and a freshly bought coffee. First reaction - I flinched in disgust at the book he held in hand, his fingers clamped around the binding as he exchanged with me an incredulous look and whispered timidly, "Is this the right hall, I assume? I would not want to have been mistaken, that would be very mortifying, wouldn't it?"

Hell, just hearing that gentle German drawl of his made my intestines twist into knots and my heart rate increase ... especially his fluent English. But I was majorly unimpressed at his choice of reading material. I tried to make it evident that his presence wasn't discerning me by throwing him a baleful expression. "Yeah ... think so. I can't believe you're reading that, however." I cocked my eyebrows in disapproval, for him to wince and recoil at my expense ... I would have snorted and just sauntered away usually, but that painfully vulnerable position he was in, his shoulders hunched, his eyes wide with anxiety and his face an unbearable expression of guilt made me reconsider ...

"Oh, yes. Well, I don't really ... I don't really like it much, either. But I sort of ... have to read it?"

"Aww, c'mon. It's the twenty first century. Those kind of white nationalist beliefs are outdated, prejudiced shite. If you went around preaching them to any average Joe, you'd be likely t'receive a punch in the face."

"Well, I'll make sure I don't, if they're oh so offensive," he replied snippily, swivelling away from me. "How do they affect you, otherwise?"

First impressions are never an accurate representation of someone's overall character; but they sure do contribute to some of their later actions. After that scenario with Friedman, he didn't make further contact with me for weeks ... I've counted, it was at least around four or five before he merely exercised any oral communication within my direction. When I did happen to mooch past him in the corridor, every muscle in his body stiffened, his shoulders erect as he started briskly walking past (i.e., avoiding me); his eyeballs like saucepans as he threw me a petrified expression, noticing that I was walking in the same direction as he rushed further; as I was about to open my mouth, he started to march frantically as though there were CCTV cameras fixed into the corners of the lecture theatre, and he was their main focus - I tugged at the sleeve of his shirt to drag him forwards as he let out a yelp of frustration; he then toppled onto me, his immense weight crashing me down to the glazed wooden floorboards as we tumbled to the ground and holy fuck - his torso pressed firmly against mine, with our legs tangled and our erm, lower members touching, it was certainly a compromising position we had ourselves in, and I couldn't help but love it ... if it weren't for the fact that Alfred scrambled straight to his feet afterwards, in a feeble attempt to flee. Goddammitsonofa... but then I clung onto his shirt again, and as he struggled to rid of my clutches, cursing in German and throwing me hostile glances as I flung to and fro from his arm like a rag doll ...

... thuck! Yes, you heard. "Thuck." Like a cross between thud and fuck. Although it sounds more like "fuck" in general. And there certainly wasn't any fucking involved, much to my dismay. Just me flinging to the ground pathetically due to my not-so-sturdy build and growling, "fuck!" under my breath.

"Look, I'm sorry, but why are you avoiding me?" I burbled out, in a frantic state of pent-up, conflicting emotions of anxiety and infuriation. "I know our last little run in was not so satisfactory, but there's no need to treat me as though I'm a horde of plague infested rats, thanks!"

Wiping down his shirt with a disgruntled look, he then muttered something so inaudible that even a bat would have to clean its ears out to clock what he was murmuring.

"Umm, say that again?"

Darted pupils. A little sweat trickled. Clammy hands. Licking of the lips. I wish that was my tongue on his lips ...

"Idon'tassociatewithyourkind."

Umm, excuse me? "My kind?"

"Yes. Your kind. Carson, Rocco Carson. You're related to Sharon Carson, aren't you?"

"Yes ... oh, riiiight."

Sharon Carson was my dad's tight-skinned, hard-hearted, suit-sporting sister who lived her life under the sole Shakespearean quote: "I must be cruel, only to be kind." This mentioning of her brings me back to last time she was dining with my family around five months ago and how she told us how she was addressing a court case where a man had assaulted a Rabbi and believed that his actions were justified as, "he was a representation of our society advocating miscegenation." Fortunately, he had been sentenced to eighteen months in prison, and thoroughly deserved it so. However, I was astonished that Alfred Friedman had knowledge of my family chain, let alone my aunt's ...

Unless ...

Oh ...

"Did you know ..."

"My father? Yes, very well, he was the one whose sperm I was produced from and have had to live with for the past eighteen years, thanks. Until recently. Your "well-intentioned" aunt got him locked up in prison, thanks to her, and he has been given death threats by disgusting lower beings who were brought up in hellish conditions and feel they need to impose their wrath onto him. Why? Because he offends them, apparently - he offends them by telling them exactly what they are - council estate scum -"

"Umm, that's not telling it like it is, that's wrongfully ostracising people due to their class in society. And your father deserved to be sentenced for his attack. There is no justification for it whatsoever. And I like to believe the majority of the human population would agree with me." At first, I turned my heel, the sensation of triumph swelling up in my stomach to such an extent that I could burst into random song - hey, I just told this complete extremist off! Go me! But then there was another side of me, nagging at the one accompanied by nonexistent orchestras, "Hey, hold your horses! As much as you were in the right, you completely blew your chances at an opportunity to become even acquaintances with this semi-god! What's wrong with you and social interaction with members of the same sex?" As much as I realised this Friedman character represented everything I despised, there was still that edge of reluctance, that sense of disconnection that he had with the beliefs he was fed to him, despite his insistence ... that somehow hooked me further, somehow still continued to lure me in, because I was absolutely one hundred percent convinced that there was some form of decency within this guy, some form of respect I could own -

Oh, fuck it. The damned git just got off at his stop, otherwise. Urgh, stop thinking about him, he's not worth it! I mentally scold myself. And if I don't watch it, I'll miss my stop at Central Station. Finally slinging my beaten-down rucksack behind my shoulder, I trudge downstairs to the bottom deck by the time the bus has came to a halt and head my way to the outside of Central Station, where a huddle of people kicking a small rubber ball about start cat-calling me. "'Aiiiiiiiiight, Roccooooo! Roccooooo! How was your romantic interlude with the Levy today, aye?"

Aww, shit ...

These, believe it or not, are who I like to call my friends.

As a furious, scorching blush creeps over my face as I charge towards Milo, the culprit responsible of bawling these slurs in particular, Aaron restrains me, his large shoulders shuddering as he tries to contain his laughter. Still, I pathetically attempt to attack the little fucker known as Milo, flailing my arms and legs vehemently as I throw all sorts of expletives at him. "Aww, Christ, mate, you're certainly composed today, Rocco! What happened, are they planning marriage arrangements or something?"

"Nooo ... they didn't ... Maria'd rather drown herself ... lemme go ... in hyrdiodic acid than ... lemme go, Aaron ... marry me ... lemme go!"

"You promise you won't attack Milo?" Wayne cooed sarcastically, clipping my chin with his index finger as he said so.

"I pwomise." I returned the syrupy sweetness, saccharine practically dripping off my tongue as I used my favourite trick in the book - the puppy dog eyes - in order to lull Wayne and Aaron into a false sense of security. I had the perfect eyes for it: they're rather large with long, dark eyelashes enclosed around them and render from a "light azure to a deep ultramarine," as described so eloquently by artwhores alike when I attend raves. To put it bluntly, they're a gay man's wet dream. Everything else about my appearance, however ...

I can see a slant of the eyebrow ... fading of smirks ... and slackening of the grip ... and dammit, the enemy was weakening! Quick! Take advantage of the situation! Once I was free of Aaron's clutches, I lunged straight at Milo, toppling over him and proceeded to beat the living shit out of the bugger ... lightly.

"Oi, gerroff, man, ah canne breathe thanks tae ye, fatass," Milo grimaced, as he squirmed underneath, feebly attempting to restrain me from pulling at his greasy fringe; much to my misfortune, there is a small crowd gathering around, genuinely believing this is some form of scrap, whilst Aaron and Wayne just stand there, laughing hysterically at the entire fiasco. Considerate bunch ...

Two hands clamp onto my shoulders and I'm hoisted up, thanks to Jason as Rodney brings Milo to his feet as he grins sheepishly at me. "Ah, looks like no remarkable damage has been done," Rodney chirped, his dim blue eyes scanning Milo up and down as he brushed him down from the back slightly, Jason investigating me also, shaking his head in disapproval. "Good grief, man! We're supposed to arrive around five o'clock to meet up and you guys are already got yourself in a scuffle! What do we do with you lot, eh?"

"Haha, I wouldn't worry about it," Jason guffawed, leaning against the dingy beige brick walls of the outside of Central Station, placing a hand behind his head as he lolls against them, heaving his entire weight. "I've had more turbulent experiences with Annie, she tends to have her "occasional spells" where I find her in the woods at two in the morning, and she's clinging onto my shirt, claimed she's heard a banshee and such! This is lightweight drama in comparison!"

"Yeah, well, I'm not going to even get myself involved!" Rodney grinned. "Just as long as you two aren't plotting to murder each other along the way," he then nodded, gesturing to me and Milo, "such as attempting to poison each others' meals if we catch some dinner."

"Shit, don't give 'im ideas!" Milo snorted, nudging me hard in the ribs; I quickly returned the gesture, mouthing, "I am not a fatass!," laying as thick on the mock-offense as possible while Milo smirked at my expense. Jason started catching up with Wayne and Aaron on how their weeks had been and did anything eventful happen and is there anything they can do for the rest of the day? Milo spotted a girl decked in the same neon lime hooded jacket as he was with the slogan "DROP BEATS NOT BOMBS" and pitifully attempted to serenade her, all haughty and self-assured, with a woeful rap from a Dizzee Rascal number. Nope, I have no idea why he decided to rap either. But it mildly impressed the girl, much to my astonishment. Rodney then slunk beside me and then with a gentle, dazed smile and then said dreamily, "Isn't it a beautiful day? The sun is shining, the town is packed and I can hear birds chirping melodically ..."

"... while the streets are bombarded with Burberry-sportin', Buckfast-swiggin' yobs hurling abuse at anyone who catch their gaze, Central Station is packed with overexcited pseudo-gothic tweenies hugging everyone and their dogs and my supposed friend blurts out unnecessary information aloud in public," I grumbled, gesturing to Milo throwing his hands around animatedly to his little pick-up piece as I drew out a Malboro. "Want one?"

"Nah, it's okay. Hey, don't be so cynical, Rocco, at least you don't have to pretend anymore -"

"Heh, it's not so much pretending, Maria already knows! She's known for aaaaaaages, otherwise."

"Was she cool with it? She didn't get heartbroken or hurt by it, did she?"

"Nah. First thing she said was, "I don't care." And she doesn't! The only thing she cares about is for having people listen to her daily trials and tribulations about her goldfish dying!"

"Jeez, was that the big issue today? That's worse than last week!"

"Y'mean during the job interview for RS McCalls when the employer asked her if she was Hispanic and Maria got offended?"

"Yeah! It was though she was associating being Hispanic as something bad! It isn't!"

"I know. But it's Maria. If you open the door for her, it's sexism; if you ask her if she knows another Jewish person, it's anti-semitism; if you describe a boy as a bit feminine lookin', you're a homophobe."

"Ach, well. People do get offended at these little things, so I'd be careful. Hopefully, she'll mature and realise that everyone makes little judgements now and then."

Okay, so I'm assuming you're hearing this and wondering, "Who on good God's earth are these people and why do we want to know about them?" Well, then, my lovelies, I will intend to describe in detail who on good God's earth they are and why you should want to know about them ... here are my accurately detailed (i.e., blunt) descriptions of each of them and why exactly they are integral to my well-being!

Rodney Braigs: A cheerful giant of six foot with soft, light brown curls, wide cornflower blue eyes, a wide jaw and a winning smile that causes the sun to shine, via inexplicable climate change, whenever he does. He often makes the least effort out of the majority of us in terms of dress sense, often in cool, light dress shirts and baggy, denim jeans clipped together with a copper leather belt. Although he has a several doses of baggage behind him, he at least attempts to wash it over with a gentle smile and a warm approach. There is never one day where he doesn't attempt to perk up the general atmosphere, he's such a perpeptual optimist. We've been close since we met in secondary school and our relationship has ceased to falter so far, so we've been on good terms for around six years so far, and he also attends Glasgow University with me. In overall, he could be described as "perfection in human form" if it weren't for those times he forgets his medication ...

Wayne Jones and Aaron Samuels: Both broad, muscular and joint at the hip, I first met these two through Rodney as they both attend the same fitness club at he does every Tuesdays and Thursdays. They're the only two who don't attend my university in our wee group. So far, they're my only two gay friends and have been dating for around two years, beginning during their fifth year at secondary. It amuses me slightly, because their characteristics contradict each other; Aaron is a man of action, a serious Type-A personality who has high ambitions and a taste for power and every drop of it, whereas Wayne is more of a beta-male, with a slacker grin and remains bizarrely composed, even when involved in the most tumultuous situations. Hell, they even look different; Wayne has a buzz cut, wide set deep brown eyes nearing a glassy oynx, with full lips, a wide nose and deep, expresso skin due to his African descent, whereas Aaron is the overall Americana-baked package with thick, blonde hair, bright almond eyes, a slightly upturned nose and small, thin salmon-shade lips. It's amusing how much they look the archetypal jocks, but live bam smack in the Wee Frees. But otherwise, their colliding personalities somehow don't provide a barrier to their long-term relationship whatsoever ... seriously, if either of them weren't in a relationship, I'd so tap that.

Jason Doberman: He's pretty much your everyday gym junkie; always chugging on a treadmill for 4 hours, fridge is packed with energy drinks and protein bars, has his bedroom adorned with medals from 10ks. He's a lanky 6'5, has fine, floppy red hair and his long, pale face is sprinkled with freckles. Why he isn't your everyday gym junkie is, well ... he has the most obscure taste in women. Ever. Considering that he's an attractive athlete who's gregarious, sociable, ever so slightly arrogant about his physique and his plethora of medals that embellish his entire bedroom walls, you'd think he'd have a bodacious, large-breasted harlot with tamed, cascading curls leeching onto his arm, wouldn't ya? Well, wouldn't it amuse you that Jason's current partner, after dating a string of girlfriends ranging from a Wiccan pansexual who lived in a treehouse to a Final Fantasy junkie who emulated Sephiroth from his silver tresses to his clothing, is a tea-addicted albino who believes she's an otherkin? No, I can't, either.

And finally, let me introduce you to my friend who gains the most recognition, regardless of whether good or bad ... Milo Davidson. He's ... God, I actually can't get around to finding one word to summarise him. "Kooky" doesn't even come close. His attention spam is incredibly short; one minute, he'll appear completely riveted in your tale about how you headed to the corner shop on Friday to buy some milk, then he'll suddenly belt out, "I had a dream where ma granny was chasin' me with a machete!"to a complete randomer. It's troublesome to describe his appearance, as he always changes his dress sense every two days and dyes his hair multiple colours, but today, he's decked in tight bright red skinnies which hang loosely onto his scrawny legs, a white T-shirt with the slogan "Cool as Fuck" (how au contraire to his genuine attire!) and his favoured neon lime hoodie, while his hair remains an, umm ... interesting blend of pink, purple and blue, the fringe just swooping under his old ass cap he got as a freebie after summer camp. Interesting to say the least ...

"So, what we doin' this evening?" Jason yawns, stretching his arms around the railings as I offer him a Malboro. "Nae thanks, m'body's a temple."

"Ach, well, all the more for me!" I grin, as I slide it back into the packet, already drawing in on my own and ... fucking hell, what a feeling. Have I told you that a cigarette break is extremely comforting after one hour therapy sessions with your alleged life partner? It's simply orgasmic, lemme tell ya that. "Think we'll have a break at Costa fae now, then head to Glasgow Green for a bit, and then mooch around until the clubs start opening."

"Rather vague, but sounds like a plan!" Jason declared, just as Milo dragged his new found girlfriend over to us. "Homies and gentlemen, I'd like yous all tae meet Audrey; Audrey, meet the lads -" he then starts pointing in at each of us in the manner a precocious child would " - Rodney Johnathon Braigs, Aaron David Samuels, Wayne Phillip Jones, Jason Conrad Doberman and, oh - the fat loser with th'ciggie is Rocco."

"Oh, Milo, how do I ever cease to find your playground jabs hysterical," I mutter monotonously, as Milo bears his teeth out, attempting to communicate "Get in theeere!" as he slings an ungraceful arm around Audrey's neck, while she throws him a quizzical expression.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, oh, oh! Sorry, Audrey. I'll resort back to traditional methods. May I put my arm around your neck, please?"

"Y'know what? We've just met. You shouldn't always consider any breathing being who happens to have a vagina to be a future conquest." With a turn of her heel, she swiftly made her way to a group of girls who were eyeing up her possible date. Urgh, harsh, but she does have a point. Poor Milo. As he mutters underneath his breath, "Sorta hurt ..." I then snake an arm around his shoulders and shrug, "Hey, mate, it could have been worse. You could have accidentally fell for the son of a man who underwent a court case for assaulting a rabbi, y'know?"

"Rocco, God ..." he grins under his breath. "You need to get over him. He's, like, a total headcase. And you need someone who, y'know, actually respects your whole religion and upbringing withou' bein' a tool about it."

This is why I'm actually (and cryptically) most close to Milo out of the majority of the group - there's a compassionate, considerate side to him that goes unknown due to his eccentric tendencies, technicolour clothing and the general volume of his voice whenever hyper. He's the only one in our group I've confided in about Alfred and can understand where I'm coming from. What's completely bizarre about that is that I have two friends of the same sexuality as my own, you'd think they'd be able to relate, so why don't I confess my dilemma to them? I'll tell you why - it's because neither of them have endured a relationship where they feel that the void between them and the object of their unrequited love is so far away that they would need the power of a nuclear rocket launcher to blast them as far as remotely touching halfway through. When you're a gay horny teenager, fair enough, you'll crush on some heterosexual men and you'll feel that distant pang of unrequited affection. But when you're a gay, horny Jewish teenager who happens to be severely crushing on a white nationalist, there is no hope in hell for you.

As for Milo, he's just a horny teenager who's hopeless, so it equates pretty well.

Nah, but with serious intent, Milo tends to be able to give me full-hearted responses whenever I'm discussing these situations with him. He also can relate to the situation, as he has a fair idea of who Alfred is, due to catching sight of him with his little squad strutting around the campus, haughtily laughing over coffee and heavy literature, so he at least has a vague idea of his character. He also tends to give his own raw, undiluted opinion on specific situations or people, and never holds back, which I find really refreshing. With Rodney, he usually attempts to see the best in every being with some rather cringing results I'd rather not think of (i.e.,"Yes, Osama Bin Laden was a terrible, cruel man, but he wasn't completely evil - he couldn't have the most conventional upbringing to have such horrible beliefs, don't you think?") and as for Jason, he avoids conflict and tries to keep his opinions neutral (i.e., "Meh." "She's okay." "Eh, dunno, he's bit of a wanker, but.") So it's a pretty damn good idea to keep this whole fiasco to me and Milo only.

"I know, I know, he is," I reply. "He just ... I don't know, maybe I'm blinded by my own affections, but I don't see Alfred as a complete demonic asshole, got my drift?"

"Yeah, but mate, he sucks up to anything his Mummy and Daddy do. If his Daddy reads Mein Kampf, he follows along. If Daddy insults a member of working-class society, he does to. And if Daddy tries to defend himself for beatin' the shit out of a rabbi, he'll do what a good Daddy's boy will, won't he? He's absolutely pathetic, he's got no backbone. Ah dunno what you see in 'im, Rocco -"

"- apart from the fact that he looks as though Apollo knocked Aphrodite up and -"

" - disowned him, allowing Hitler to adopt him?"

"Aww, shut up. But seriously, he looks like a God. And he seems intelligent. And he seems as though -"

"He has a sympathetic side? Yeah, Rocco, he sure has a lot of sympathy over the shit he probably receives on a daily basis. "Waaah, poor me, I got punched in the face by a horrible negro because I told him Africa was in tatters because they rejected their original owners, racist slave dealers! Boo hoo!" Bigoted prick. No idea what you see in 'im, Rocco. Nooo idea." Then a Chesire cat smile emerged upon Milo's face - I could sense that only meant trouble.

" ... what?"

"You're always bangin' on abou' being a virgin, right?"

"Well, hmm. Yeah. What can I say? It gets to you sometimes ..."

"And you're always eyeing up men in the raves we go tae, always checking if there's one you might possibly be interested in."

"With unsucessful results?"

"True. But say, likes, we, y'know ... set a proposition. To take yer mind off o' this Friedman."

"And ... what would that be?"

"We write an advert for you in the lonely hearts section of the Guardian."

Oh no. Ohnoohnoohno. This definitely can't be good. I mean, what would mine say? "Gay, Jewish ... Liebe bratwurst?"