During the occasionally-traditional Friday night drinks, I end up at the award-winning Toucan Club at their Welsh-language music evening, watching The Gogs doing their energetic head-moshing rock thing. And watching the crowd, because I’ve had way too much drink at this point (4 pints, probably) to do much but observe.
At one point, a short girl with shockingly pick bouffant hair comes in. Which makes a huge change from the uniform of skinny dyed-blonde-hair girls with handbags and boys with short hair, shirts and trousers at the club. (Not that I’m any different of course).
So the girl is standing there, watching the action. One of the boys next to her decides to have a little fun by pinching her bottom while looking away non-chalantly and supping his bottled beer. She looks around, all startled and ready to have strong words (and probably deliver a karate chop, she looked the feisty type) with whichever grinning idiot did that. Of course, said idiot is looking away and not grinning, so she gives up and goes to the bar.
Five minutes later, while watching the band, I suddenly realise that someone has their hand on my thigh. I look down, and a distinctly masculine hand is slowly moving up and down on my thigh. Some bloke with short hair and a white shirt. So I shove his hand away, quite discreetly I thought. He then mumbles something to me in Welsh – but since my understanding of Welsh is inversely proportional to the amount of alcohol in my bloodstream – I shall never know what he said.