identities

I, of course, am not always the white boy who suffers from the blues.

Sometimes I'm just a regular bloke who goes to work and has a girlfriend and has pints with his friends. This is, in fact, most of the time. Most of the time the white boy stays in his invisible place, in the back seat of my mind, not in control but merely watching, making snarky comments and lewd observations as my politically correct self does my best to navigate everyday life.

Only on this blog and in bed, or complaining to my nearest and dearest, does the spoilt white boy really take the wheel.

This is as it should be.

Except, if all goes to plan, tomorrow I'll be meeting people as the spoilt white boy from this page. Young Dublin swingers (wannabe?), meet and greet, at a well known pub. In the flesh. With the option to flock to a hotel afterwards for even more flesh.

What if they turn out to be my coworkers, nieces and nephews or, heaven forbid, landlords?

It could happen.

Murphy's law says it must.

But, even if Murphy's law is obeyed... odds are they'll be more embarressed than I.