No, the dark web comes to him for advice on such matters.
mnem
I once ran into a former boss at the monthly London Fetish Fair.
Me:[taps him on shoulder] "Hello Martin (not his real name)." [To his boyfriend] "Hello Bobby"
Him: [slightly taken aback] "Oh, hello. I didn't expect to meet you, here."
[We catch up briefly. As we do various people go past and say "Hi Cerebus" in passing]
Him: "Erm, you seem to know a lot of people here."
Me: [archly] "Yes, I do don't I."
Truthfully, I'm remarkably 'vanilla' as it is known in these circles, but at one point I knew everybody who was anybody among London's respectable perverted. I used to get invited to all the parties, and I've seen things that would have given Mary Whitehouse a heart attack on the spot.
I seem to attract weird and interesting people, not something that I have any intention of discouraging. Even if we don't share whatever defining characteristic that marks them out from 'ordinary' people I just take people as I find and that generally means that I can get on with almost anybody. As a consequence I have got to meet and know all sorts of odd fellows and it makes for an interesting life.
And that is my excuse for knowing what BD's on about when he makes a sideways reference to some obscure fetish. What's yours?
I did some thinking about this and have come to the conclusion that it’s a simple function of I=D/M^2
I = probability of interesting interactions
D= how drunk you are
M=distance from middle of London.
Recent datapoint suggests that to compensate for Clapham I’d have to drink so much that the interesting people would be most likely be at Lambeth Hospital.
This theory also explains why you should never go out in small towns.
Unless your particular fetish includes farm animals, that's probably wise.
Our local watering hole didn't have peanut shells on the floor deliberately like next town over, but sometimes you
wish they did.
One thing that still sticks in my mind... the owner was such a cheap bastard (or maybe it was to eliminate a non-biliard-ball source of ammunition for pelting the bartender) he didn't buy chalk for the cheap bar-service 7/8 pool table which of course leaned top-right
(why is it always top-right...?), even after some guy threw another guy through it and it had to be replaced... anyhoo... so there were numerous holes aboot the size of a dime that had been worn into the brick fascia walls around the pool table.
The holes in the "grout" were to rough the tip; the holes in the "brick" were to use instead of chalk. And everybody there seemed to think this was perfectly normal.
*mnemories*