Yule be sorry

Christmas Eve 2008, London

'One the twelfth day of Christmas my "true love" gave to me...

Twelve ugly pairs of socks that wouldn't even make it into the dressing up box

Eleven bottles of cheap carbonated wine mixed with shitty orange juice marked as "Festive Buck's Fizz"

Ten annoying and slightly drunk fathers who insist on calling it Fuck's Bizz.

Nine Jewish people trying to live life as usual

Eight (hundred thousand) people who've plunged themselves even further into credit card debt by buying expensive but crap presents.

Seven putrid chocolate and coffee-type drinks with some bitter chemicals thrown in, marked as a Festive Zinger Latte and served in a red cup.

[Unfortunately, due to an oversight, "Six" is currently awaiting government bail-out money because the management were all greedy fuckers who screwed just about everyone, except themselves, over.]

Five poofs on Gaydar offering a horny festive fuck-fest and chemmed-up cum-dump session. No fatties or fems.

Four managers at WH Smith screaming "Jesus H. Christ, how many times do I have to tell you to keep this door shut", at their staff.

Three smug London Underground workers announcing that anyone wanting to travel on Christmas or Boxing day might just as well get fucked.

Two mothers in Woolworths calling their kids "little fuckers who're not gonna get anyfing cos the store's gone bust. Now stop fucking whining."*

And some cheap imitation and imported partridge in a pear tree marked "Proudly British" but made by poor starving workers in a sweatshop outside Beijing.
Merry Christmas etc.

* = a seasonal note to Christmas shoppers that the CD store zavvi has also gone bust, so if you couldn't management to find it in Woolies, chances are it'll be in the zavvi discount bin instead.

The Beautiful People

The party theme is The Beautiful and the Damned so I decide that my housemate and I must go together, she beautiful and I damned.

On Saturday morning, after a particularly hellish week, I find myself in Camden Town with a list.

Camden Town is pretty much the epicentre of alternative and boho punk-loving tattooed-up, pierced and flame-haired looneys. It's great.

To help with my morning shop I found the following songs particularly helpful - they played a gentle roar on my iPod;

1/ (m)Obscene
2/ Get Your Gun
3/ New Model No. 15 (I am currently re-inlove with this tune)

No-one would have known which is probably why I was getting funny looks while perusing the clothes rack in Metal Militia.

Everyone else dressed in black with a nose-ring, me in Nike sneakers, Mexx jeans and a Nicole Fahri jacket. They shouldn't judge books etc.

Finally, after a few hours I had all the bits I needed. Back at home, I couldn't wait.

I painted my nails and tried on a few bits. Because I am strictly rock 'n roll I had a few beers while doing this - all the better being only about 11.30am.

A party sleep and my housemate and I get ready. I strap her into her corset and she does my complicated make-up.

Tattoo sleaves, wig, hat and contact lenses all done. Tie on, shoes done, leather trousers, tick.

No longer am I the dull, rather vague and uninteresting book-end but instead I have become the original Antichrist Superstar.



As Dita and Marilyn, my housemate and I are a complete hit. We win best costume.

When the photographer sends us the bloody photos, I'll show you. But people ask to have their photos taken with us. I love it.

Forget everything I've said in the past, fancy dress is fun, fun, fun!

I think in time I may come to regret saying this but I'll say it again only so that you can remind me of my folly...

Fancy dress rocks!

All invitations to similar-such parties will be very gratefully received. Invite me bitches, otherwise I'll bite you.

First movement

We don't like secrets around here so let's be honest.

After the longest day, travelling but mostly out in the cold and on my feet, I have to confess that this is the most relaxing place in the whole house to sit down.

I put down the lid to save anyone's blushes.

And don't just believe my word for its comfort, just ask Elvis Presley.

Or King George II.

"On the morning of 25 October 1760, the King entered his water closet at Kensington Palace and, after a few minutes, his valet heard a loud crash.
He entered the water closet to find the King on the floor. The King was lifted into his bed, and asked for Princess Amelia, but before she reached him, he was dead."

See, you learn something new every day.

If your name's George and you're the King of England and you've plonked your royal derrier down on the loo to do some paperwork, beware!

A flush beats a full house.

etc.

Sparkling diamonds

Urgh.

This morning on the Tube into work one man stank of garlic and another had dry scalp issues.

And the Jubilee Line is usually one of the better lines, travelling through some of London's richest suburbs and then into the financial heart of the capital.

This morning I had an idea and I think the guy who owns the Jubilee Line is missing a trick.

Just as when you travel on National Rail in Britain, so it should be on the Tube - two classes of travel.

Common class and Upper Class - or in this case, Diamond Jubilee Class.

It would make the journey into work so much more pleasant and I have applied my mind to this.

They should make one carriage in each train available for Diamond Jubilee Class passengers only.

In Diamond Jubilee Class there would be no smelly builders, no-one eating anything from Chicken Cottage and no-one playing their fucking guitar.

In Diamond Jubilee Class there would be seating for everyone, mood lighting and occasional pillows.

Small TVs dotted throughout the carriage would play short vignettes from the latest arthouse cinema releases and soothing hits from the Naxos collection would complete the ambience.

On selected lines, other Diamond Jubilee Class ambassadors would pass through the carriage with a selection of hot and cold drinks (soya substitute and pro-biotic variants included).

Pulling into the station there would be no automatic voice. "The next station is St John's Wood. Please mind the crap bla bla..." No.

Instead, Sue - a Carriage Ambassador, would excuse herself for interrupting those reading the complimentary copies of Camus, Proust and Dostoyesvky to pre-announce stations.

"Dear Diamond Clubbers. We're now pulling into Bond Street. Those wishing to change for the Central Line will find the complimentary transfer service located on the platform towards the rear doors. (Golf cart, clearly marked 'Diamond Passengers ONLY')

Waiting at every alighting point, another Carriage Ambassador would be there with a warm towel and a smile.

Here we see the lovely Amelia welcoming Diamond Club passengers at West Hampstead station.

In another example, we see the interior of a Diamond Club class carriage.

Each carriage would have its own bespoke theme - this one is Moroccan souk.

And before I hear you will sigh and say, "Bobby these are amazing ideas but who's really going to pay to travel Diamond Club class?"

Well, I tell you, it's no more affordable than what you'd pay now.

All we'll do is ramp up the price for the proletariat using Common class to subsidise us beautiful people in Diamond Class.

Sounds fair to me.

It's a small word afterall

Goodness me.

The following classified advert appears in the back of one of those tatty but free gay magazines that clubs in Soho use to cover the floor of the toilets cubicles with...

(Please mind the filthy language.)

"West Hampstead, open door ANONYMOUS suck/fuck - 7 days + 7 nights. £30, come in and unload anonymously.
Groups welcome.
All you have to do is just walk in, UNZIP and UNLOAD.
No Strings/VERY Discreet.... No chat needed / required.
Door open 7DAYS...1.30PM TIL 5PM and then again 7NIGHTS..8.00.PM TIL 8AM NEXT MORNING
***(NIGHT SESSIONS DONE IN NEAR DARKNESS SO EVEN MORE ANONYMOUS!)***
Rubbers/Lube/Poppers always here for use, so all you need to do is just bring yourself!
Please call or text XXXX XXX XXX.
***JUST £30***....Sessions last til you cum!"

The advert has a link to a Gaydar profile which you're welcome to go and look for.

I did because I live in West Hampstead.

Holy moly! The unlock and unload house is down the bloody road from me!

Yes of course I walked to the address tonight to try and guess which flat it was. I'm presuming it's the one without the lights on?

But then how the hell does it work?

If it's anonymous and in darkness where the hell do you put the £30?

Perhaps you ring the bell, whisper the password and his doddery old mum buzzes you in. She's obviously Welsh.

In the hallway she's sat behind a trestle table with a light on, in a floral hat with a petty cash box.

"That's thurty pounds dear and will you be wantin' to toss one off quick or the full service, bummen included?"

She holds her hat and turns around to shout down the corridor, "Dennis - I've got a bloke here, wants the lot. Full bummen cock action!"

Turning back and smiling, "if you just want to take a seat, he'll be with you shortly."

A few chairs are lined against one of the walls of the room.

On one side there's a potted fern with only one leaf and a pile of dog-eared and out-of-date Marie Claire magazines - the ones the nearby hairdressers threw out.

There's a knock from the room down the corrider. "Oh, no", says mum, "that's just Dennis - he needs more towels. Poor dear, his knees are shot to shit you know..."

"Coming dear", she says as she gets up and waddles off to get some freshly laundered linen.

Sometimes when the trade is a little slow mum takes a cigarette, her copy of OK! and some Mint Viscounts to go to sit on the step for a quick fag break.

Maybe Dennis comes out to join her, though I imagine he takes his kit off beforehand.

It's not really something you want the neighbours to see, do you?

Gossip will travel...

Truthfully though, it's probably nothing like this.

I reckon inside there's some rather odd gentleman in a leather harness, crouched on the floor in a darkened room that stinks of body fluids and his balding hair matted with spunk.

For £30? Good god, no thank you. You'd have to pay me a hellava lot more than that to go and find out.

I'm inquisitive but not that inquisitive.

I think I'm going to spend the evening watching Disney movies.

Gym buddy

Bitches.

Every year the gym sends me a letter and every year that letter it says "thank you for being a member. Fuck you, we're going to increase the sub."

It doesn't necessarily say it like that though. Well sort of.

Anyway, part of this letter always includes a complimentary pass which allows me to invite a friend to train at my gym.

Since I do not have a single friend, the pass is in danger of going to waste. But.

If you live in London and are up for the challenge here it is...

The challenge is you have to come to my gym for the day (or part of) and then write about your various experiences of flirting with the other boys, tossing one off in the showers (if you're unlucky) and that's about it.

You don't need a blog to do this because I'm going to post the story here. If you do have a blog and wanna post it then fine.

Does anyone want to come to my gym?

There are some rules to this challenge and here they are:
1/ I don't really want to work out with you - this is an opportunity for you to become beautiful.
2/ The gym is in North London - I know this isn't exactly a rule but I'm just saying.
3/ Er...
4/ That's the end of the rules.

Please send me an e-mail amnotblog AT gmail.com or leave a comment. I think it's first come-first served etc.

Keeping it brief

If you've been on the Tube in the last few days you couldn't have missed the following poster which is stuck up in just about every station on the network.

This one is from Bond Street but this evening I spotted other copies at Queensway and Tottenham Court Road...

The ad is for D&G (who?) and it shows five Italian rugby players.

Using buff sportsmen as underwear models is apparently très chic and never been done before.

However.

Please don't be jealous when I tell you this but I've slept with all five of them.

Correction. I've slept with four of them; two seperately, two together and the fifth I actually turned down.

Since I am an altruistic sort of chap - and you're just a perv - I'll happily give you all the details. You needn't ask.

We might as well start with the one I turned I down - he's circled red in the picture below.

Real name: Benito Bocchino, he's a mere 22 years old which initially put me off.

Then I heard that to all his friends his nickname is Patsy Passive. He apparently has an arse like the windsock at Heathrow; a self-confessed power-bottom. Not really my scene so I said thanks but no thanks.

The two circled in the green are the pair I took together. Luckily I did because what the one lacked the other made up for.

The one on the left is Tito Tirare, he's 27 years old. And before your eyes start watering, I have one word for you...

Tissues.

As I said, what the one lacked the other made up for. The one on the right is of course Stefano Sbrodare, he's 21. Centimetres that is.

There's nothing much to fault with Stefano the screamer. Except for that, of course. Stefano vocalised like a Ferrari going up a hill at 150mph in first.

Things didn't go that well with Tito in the end. He farted so I kicked him out of bed.

Moving on to the dark green circle or should I say Umberto Uccello.

What a sweetie. Was a bit apprehensive because in his spare time he trawls the stages of Bologna as Betsy Busone - a cabaret tribute act to all the divas; Liza, Judy and Elton. He apparently does a killer medley of the Cabaret hits.

Drag queens aren't really my scene but once he'd taken off the dress, undone the girdle and removed the Sellotape, it was great.

Finally, circled in blue is Enzo Assatanato. I have left him til last - just as you would the best.

You know what they say about the quiet ones? Enzo has more tricks up his sleeve than the entire graduate class at the London School of Magic.

One of them is for Enzo to put his leg behind his head, he's the self-confessed Pilates Queen of Pisa.

And not just that. So talented is Enzo, he could suck the chrome off a tow-hitch on a Lamborghini. And boy, in the end, did we need that warm towel.

So that's the inside gossip. You see, rooting through the national rugby squad of Italy is extremely tiresome, dull even. But somebody's gotta do it.

Thanks for listening.

And by the way.
Everything I've just said - all of the above is a complete lie. Also, I don't sleep with sportsmen who model underwear in their spare time. Or at least not ones who pose for D&G.

Comeback queen

If Elvis had re-emerged from the dead and crawled onto the stage in a wedding dress singing Like A Virgin, they would have been like "meh."

Instead on X-Factor we were witness to Britney's comeback.

Of course the media completely talked the whole thing down. I think it may have been one of the tabloids that described it as the greatest reappearance since Jesus.

You can always rely on the newspapers to keep things in context.

Finally at around 10.20pm last night on ITV1 this cataclysmic event happened.

Doormat O'Laundret could barely contain himself as he announced that now it was time for Ba-rit-neee.

The sound system groaned under the over-used strains of Carmina Burana, fireworks burst and big flashy silver graphics alerted us to Ba-rit-nee's various successes.

"One and a quarter billion albums sold", "more than 85 number 1 hit singles" and "972 grammy awards won".

Curiously the "27 bottles of OxyContin necked in a single sitting" fact seemed to have been forgotten.

Then from behind a massive un-ironed sheet Ba-rit-nee appeared. The crowd went wild and in a thousand living rooms across Britain squadrons of young gay men let out a small wee.

For the next 3-odd minutes Ba-rit-nee stomped around the stage, flinging her hair about and miming badly to a song which seemed to only have two words.

You. Womaniser. You you you you. Womaniser. Womaniser. Womaniser. You. Womaniser. You You Womaniser.
(Here in England we spell it with an s)

Suddenly Ba-rit-nee was standing with her hands in the air as some dancer lay on the floor and the song was over.

O'Laundromat then bounded on to ask the Ms Spears a few questions.

"Do you have any advice for our X-Factor contestants?", he enquired.

"Yeah, just keep going", replied Ba-rit.
(Read: Fuck off, I don't know who you are - I don't have a goddam clue what this show is about because I've spent the last few hours in my suite at the Dorchester with the TV off.)

Before she could leave the stage it seemed that everyone on earth was united in their verdict; a truly astonishing performance by the world's greatest-ever singer of the best song ever written.

Suddenly I felt like the little boy who pointed at the naked emperor.

If that was the greatest comeback performance by one of the best performers in the world than either:

a/ the whole world has gone mad or
b/ I'm getting too old for that sort of thing.

Metal detector

It's obviously been a very busy day in the news.

In the entrance to our office we have this electronic scrolling thingy (I think that's its technical name) that gives visitors the latest headlines as they enter the building.

I'd been at the Tesco buying a bottle of water and some sushi and came back to the very latest news from around the UK and the world.

Here's what I was told...

"Britney confirms UK concert dates"

"Wogan sings Bing to drum up cash". (Can anyone explain this?!)

And "Escort wanted to be handcuffed"...

Cor. Get that!

Have you been following the trial of the century?

Boy George allegedly beats alleged Norwegian escort with a pole and allegedly chains him with an alleged chain to the wall of his alleged house in Shoreditch. Alleged.

Apparently they allegedly met on Gaydar and the rent allegedly went around to George's house once or twice allegedly, where George allegedly put the rent boys' (alleged?) willy in his mouth and took photos of him too.

Imagine the poor judge in full costume and wig having to sit and listen to all this! Alleged.

The moral of the story is simple. If you're rent and a famous person comes calling - put down the goddam phone.

So a court hears Boy George allegedly ties his rent-boys up and allegedly beats them with poles...

If it's true it would be tame in comparison!

Remember the stories a few years ago of the British politician (married and with kids) who hired a rent-boy to commit "unspeakable acts of degradation" on him.

I'm sure there are also some American politicians who've developed a habit of ending up in bed with rent-boys too.

Although I'm pretty sure there was none of that sort of er, degradation going on...

It would be the best day in the world if all the dirty little secrets were finally revealed.

Me and Anna were sitting in the office the other day, looking around at some of our male colleagues. I bet there were at least two of them who were wearing women's underwear.

And then there's this other women who we're sure had it off with two other male colleagues in the loo at the Christmas party. At the same time.

And there's this other guy who's apparently in a nightclub photo from a dirty evening in Vauxhall. I haven't seen the photo but someone else says it confirms what everyone's suspected for ages.

That there is a rather large metal object attached to what's stuffed in his underpants. When he talks to me I battle to look him in the eyes.

Mark of the beast

Every morning for the last week I have had to run the gauntlet into work.

It's getting so bad that I can't look, I have to literally leg it and stay transfixed at the ceiling.

Thank god I have yet to bump into anyone while running.

Let's be clear - Barry Levinson is a great director. The guy's won an Oscar.

For me his finest moment is the scene in High Anxiety where he cameos as a psychotic bellman who attacks Mel Brooks with a newspaper in a spoof of the shower scene from Psycho.

However.

It's his latest film that's causing me all the distress.

Here is a poster of it at Bond Street tube station, in a passage that leads to the Central Line platform.

It's just so bad.

Looking at it now makes my teeth itch.

Dear Barry Levinson,

This is an appeal - on behalf of me and for the safety of others at Bond Street tube station who I may bump into while running and screaming, until the poster is removed or amended...

Please get your people to add a fucking question mark to the goddam title...

Fuck!

Thanks Bazza.

Luvs ya and most of your work.

Bobs

One of those

We'd been drinking at a birthday party in Clapham and Clapham is nice for some people.

We leave Clapham and we're on the Northern Line travelling north - as you do - and we stop just before Kennington.

There's that noise, like a truck reversing into wheelie bins. It is the Tube driver coming to terms with the train's PA system.

He announces that someone has collapsed on the platform

He says that anyone who plans to set themselves on fire (alight) should watch their step and - critically - he warns passengers at the front of the train who're sensitive to these things, not to look.

I'm just confused about why train drivers always refer to everything in third-person omniscient tense but that's just me.

Anyway, we pull into the station and sure enough, the doors open to reveal a man lying on the platform passed out in a pool of vomit. It's not an attractive look.

This couple who're sat against the window turn around to look. She gets upset so he gives her a reassuring hug. He tuts.

This really pisses me off.

At the top of my voice I say; "he's breathing so it's not a problem and the driver did say don't look - so why did you?"

They both look down.

Me, powered by five-odd Stellas; "if you know something's going to upset you why look? I'm trying to understand this?"

Chris, who's with me; "I love it when they can hear you but pretend they can't."

Me: "Yeah, and everyone else around us can hear but pretending they can't."

Chris: "No, they're all thinking, shut the fuck up.'"

Me: "They wouldn't use that kind of language, they all look so dreadfully middle class."

Chris: "Urgh."

Everyone sits in complete silence, staring at the floor.

Waterloo's the next stop so we get off.

I'm sure she then snuggled in close to him and went "I really hate those kind of people."

Can't touch this...

It's only November 22nd but this may just be the coolest thing I have seen all year...

Simplicity is genius.

Who's your mummy?

Tonight I speak to my mother who is chipper as she tells me of the wonderful weekend she's had.

She says that on Friday night a group of her women-friends got together, they drank and ate, then ended up downing tequila at the Beulah bar for lesbians in Green Point in Cape Town.

Shit. It was far better when she was disapproving of that sort of thing.

Those mornings I used to come home and park the car on the lawn and stagger around gurning, she would be stood their with her hands on her hips calling me sleazy and disgusting.

When I left my clothes on the bathroom floor after showering she'd ask why they smelt so odd and would pick them up with rubber gloves.

She'd turn out my pockets before putting the trousers into the machine and find a drinks slip with "I wanna be your horny bottom-bitch" scrawled over it.

Who'd have thought she'd now be gloating about her Friday nights spent at the local bush bar? A bar where most of the balls are to be found on the pool table.

Next she's going to be wanting to come the Gay Pride holding one of those ridiculous banners that says "Our Bobby's a Bender". Or something similar.

And then she'll be hogging the floor at Fire in Vauxhall, with her T-shirt tucked behind her bra, passing around the poppers.

It'll end at Christmas with her giving me a Tom of Finland book, rubber underwear and the Queer As Folk UK boxset. In the card it'll say "the rimming scene in episode 1 is H-O-T. Luv Mum".

I sincerely hope not.

Thank god my parents live in Cape Town, 10,000 miles from Vauxhall or Fire.
I'm sure my mum probably thinks that Tom of Finland is one of Santa's little helpers.
And I hope my mum is convinced that rimming is how you apply Domestos to the toilet.

Please God let it stay that way.

Mum, I'm really not that comfortable with you telling me how drunk you got in a lesbian bar. No offence.

Crap colleagues

Around two-hundred odd people come to this blog on a daily basis to perhaps read something or be amused by something and for the last few weeks I have been shit. I'm really sorry.

Life at the moment is just shit. I really am trying so hard not to become resentful or bitter about it. The source of the problem is work.

As I type those words I can already hear myself groaning.

Because of the cutbacks they have made in our office I am doing the job of three people. I am working 60-hour weeks.

It is a back-handed compliment though. It is well-known where I work that management use the better employees and work them into the ground.

They get over-loaded with responsibilities and pushed until breaking point.

I am a long way from that point yet but I can feel it's around the corner.

And then the following happens...

Your boss says "Bobby, you need to delegate more..." So Bobby delegates - to people who are, quite frankly, fucking shit.

And you spend hours briefing them, showing them and they still do a fucking shit job. They know that in the end it's your name that is attached to the project so they don't give a toss.

They don't give a toss because they're 35 and they're lazy. They expected everything to land in their lap and when it didn't they got bitter. And now they just sit, trying to do as little as possible.

In any other organisation or company they would have been out the door a very long time ago and deserve to be. Where I work, they sit like limpets stuck to a rock.

So you delegate - to useless lazy people - but in the end you have to do it all yourself because if you want it done properly, you might as well do it yourself.

Yes, I could ask other colleagues for help but they're also being worked into the ground. So you get a short answer when you need advice and support.

Just as you give them when they ask for advice or support. Don't have time. Too busy.

I don't want to get angry and ranty - it's a wasted emotion but sometimes I really do wonder if there is any justice in the world?

Maybe the way to a happier life is to be the fucking lazy wallpaper limpet selfish cunt who works to rule and insists and taking an hour lunch break?

I don't know why I let these kind of people get to me?

Merde on a Mardi

God. Everything right now really is shit.

Redundancy, redundancy, redundancy.

But in some ways it's odd. I was in Westfield London (largest inner-city shopping centre in Europe) earlier this evening and nearly every second person was loaded with shopping.

Where are they getting the money? It must be all on credit.

It's just so awful to think of the people with a family and a home who're resting their heads on their pillows right now, stressed about whether the boss is going to call them in tomorrow morning and make them redundant.

I'm fortunate.

I am single. I am renting where I live. I am pretty-much debt free (I need to tell you about this on November 15th) and I don't have children, the car's gone and...

If I were to lose my job right now I would probably stress for a while but I've been with the same employer for nearly 6 years so would get some redundancy pay at least. Imagine having a mortgage and a young family?

Think about having to tell your young son that the fire engine he wanted for Christmas was going to have to wait because "daddy's er..." Okay, we're getting mawkish. Besides, plastic fire engines aren't that expensive.

This is all depressing and as we plunge into a shitty winter it's just going to get worse.

With me being a fairly new adult, I am still an RV (Recession Virgin) but I expect the following things will happen:

The number of people playing the lottery and gambling will shoot up.
People will spend loads more on cheap booze and drink heavily.
Petty crime will increase.
People will become more stressed, stay in for longer and not go out.
The long-haul travel industry will collapse. Small and niche businesses will collapse. Estate agents will become extinct.
All this will happen minutes after the media industry collapses too due to the advertising market drying up. (Fuck).
Basically unless you're in a job that has a direct influence on increasing profit you'll be sacked.

Oh god it's too much.

I'm going to take some painkillers and open a bottle of South African red.

It's a good bottle of red, mind - Rupert & Rothschild. We're not opening the stuff in the plastic two-litre bottles just yet.

Strip please

There are times when life just gets in the way of everything. There are also times when everything in life just gets a little odd.

Like Wednesday for example.

I'm not one to spurt toxic rantings so you probably don't know that some guy in the gym fucked my shoulder up for me. This has nothing to do with it.

I go to my Doc on Wednesday who refers me to an osteopath and I says to the Doc, "but Doc - and osteo's for the back Doc", but the Doc insists it's the right thing.

So on Wednesday evening I pitch up at the College of Osteo-something just behind Finchley Road in North West London.

(Again re-proving my theory that all the world you could ever need is contained in London, between Swiss Cottage and West Hampstead tube stations.)

Basically, they're all final year students who're desperate for people to practice on and this evening I am their guinea pig.

Miss Pringle is a large professor and tutor dressed in what seems to be a very large starched napkin.

She explains to me what is going to happen and then utters the dreaded words. "Please strip down to your underwear."

They're simple black Debenhams briefs, thank god. I don't know what's worse in this situation; aussieBums or ones with holes in them.

Then, three students - all young woman - take it in turns to push my shoulder, twist my arms around, put me in a headlock, make me stand against the wall, pull my shoulders back again, punch me in the spine and thrust their elbows into my ribs.

As they do it, Miss Pringle bellows like the drill sergeant in Full Metal Jacket; "now Miss Lovemore - have you checked the anterior fibulous deltoid?" Or whatever.

We finally learn that I have a something that, in Latin, sounds impressive.

The upshot is that on seven more occasions I am going to have to spend at least an hour and a half standing around in my underpants as four woman take it in turn to treat me rough.

That's not the distressing bit. What upsets me the most is that for the next six weeks any upper body training is out.

I figure this is my moment to attain the best legs in the whole of the gym. Legs and cardio for the next six weeks.

Finally, at the end of our session Miss Pringle emits a shimmer of light into the consulting room.

"I must be honest that it's good to have you which is why I'd like you to come back so often. We generally only get middle-aged to elderly people so it's nice for the girls to be able to practice on someone who is nicely developed."

A kind compliment wrapped in selfish motive. God the British are so good at it.

Election Night USA

Oh bugger it. You only ever get to do this every four years...

Midnight
McCain takes Kentucky and Obama takes Vermont. So no-one saw that one coming. I was planning to go to bed but this is exciting. Sort of.

Of course the only channel you should be watching when in Britain is the greatest broadcaster in the world - the BBC.

And right now I am being treated to this flame-haired Republican beauty in New York...

Don't say it because I spotted it.

Winner Takes It All? Gimme Gimme Gimme? Knowing Me, Knowing You? The potential jokes are lame but endless.

This game is called "Can you spot which is the cardboard cut-out?"

So it's over before it even started - there's no way McCain can pull it away now...

McCain is right now writing his concession speech.

Sometime after 1am... The floor manager in the studio needs to do some tidying up. Evian, posh.

She has the greatest name on the Beeb but can we go to Katty Kay in Arizona?

Er, no. Apparently at the McCain election HQ in Arizona the band is drowning everyone and everything out. Telling.

1:46am London-time and on the telly is Jesse Jackson. "Now the walls of segregation which were once built - are now not so built." Eh?

Jeremy Vine doing the number crunching in London-town tells us that "New Mexico is a fascinating state to look at". Indeed.

2:04am
According to the BBC, Fox News projects that Obama takes Ohio and Ted Koppel just said "if that is so - then it's all over."

So does that mean it's time for bed?

Remember the water bottle from three pictures up? It's gone. Vanquished.

Somebody obviously read this and decided to do some tidying up. Glad to be of service.

Sometime after 2am. 2.20-ish? And the Kat's back...

But what has the Russian flag got to do with anything?

Don't ask - I won't let you look silly. Here's the Russian flag...

2:26am
No! The slip up of the evening. The Beeb-man called it "Ark-ansis".

Oprah's just exclaimed that she's in "full vibrational mode." Yes, nice. She really did use those words...

2.40am
Bollocks. Obama's just hit 200 electoral college votes. Shall I go to bed or wait til we hit 270 votes? This is history in the making...

Did you know that in Iowa there is one human for every 8 pigs? Apparently. So says David Dimbleby.

Okay, it's nearly 3am. I think it's now time to go to bed.

This guy from the Republican party just said that er, it's going to be a long night. Which is key...

Because it means that I think it's time to go to bed.

Is it? Yes it is. History's about to be made or something.

I want to sleep.

Stop

Ohmygod. Anastasia is not going to be the next Pussycat Doll.

I would go over and change the channel but I just face getting up out of this chair. I'm not drunk and I've been to the gym so I don't have much to rant about.

Except my yearning for a holiday.

I dream about holidays. The last time I took any time off work was back in June - a week for my birthday and it was hardly relaxing. Two long-haul flights in a week, and five nights of partying / drinking / eating etc.

So it means that I haven't actually had any sort of holiday since March.

Right now, getting out of bed every morning feels like having to climb over a massive rock only to find another one right in front of you.

The pace of work is relentless.

Every week we get a blank slate and have to fill it with 22 minutes of television. It has to be topical so we can't really do anything in advance.

Tomorrow I am going to go into the office, build the running order, find stories, book locations, type scripts.

Thursday it will be filming day - somewhere in the UK, on Friday we edit. Every week the same relentless routine.

On Saturday I usually have to go into the office and finish off the mountain of paperwork that goes with it. Making sure songs are cleared, copyright logs are filled in because there isn't time to do it on a Friday.

Today I woke up at around 10am, I didn't get out of bed until around 2-ish and then it was only to go to the gym.

I got back home, watched some TV and at around 6-ish got back into my pyjamas.

And tomorrow, Monday, the cycle starts again. At least 60 hours working each week.

It's not that I am physically tired. Despite me moaning about my shoulder I have still been going to the gym. I eat healthily.

That's not what gets me down - what is most difficult is coping mentally.

I love London but it's so bloody hard.

The tube, the weather, the over-crowding, the pace, the distance, the time it takes to get anywhere. Being stuck in traffic, being stuck on a train.

Grabbing the last free copy of the Metro in the morning and finding that you haven't put a pen in your bag to complete the Sudoku - that's the sort of thing that pushes your day from being a medium tedious one into a bad one.

And amongst all of that, somehow you have to find time to socialise, do the laundry, pick up the dry cleaning, shop, go to the post office.

I want to have finished my current project at the end of December. Please let the next one start in February, the one I want.

I need a holiday - for the whole of January. And it still won't be nearly enough.

Shoulder boulder

This shoulder injury has fucked me up.

It fucking hurts and I can go to the gym but it aches and I've been told to take 6 weeks' rest. I could do legs but screw that. I really am so resentful to the fucker who did it. I will not turn bitter. No.

Thinking about it makes me want to resort to violence. Serious GBH.

Fat-fucking-cunt-motherfucker-wanker-who-did-this-to-me-because-they-should-have-been-on-the-fucking-treadmill-I hate you-fucking-hate-you-HATE-YOU!

So what else is there to do but drink? Last night on First Great Western I drank about six Harvey Wallbangers. I don't remember much of what happened after getting home.

Thank goodness for the text message history...

Right now I'm a little buzzed - three beers and two glasses of wine. I hate myself for it.

This morning at just before 9am, I found myself in the queue to visit the opening of a shopping centre.

Westfield London is apparently the biggest urban shopping centre in Europe. Don't panic. I've been so you don't have to...

Great place; a shopping centre with its own dark room.

And then I thought this was the prettiest - the fresh fruit counter at M&S...

Bla bla bla. I'm pissed. Fuck. I hate the guy who bashed into me and destroyed my shoulder. I hate him so much.

He gets away with his own fat self exercising in the mirror - a large tub of lard bashing into everyone when he should have fucking been running for his goddam life.

And then he launched himself into my life - a Teletubby in the gym, a big bounding wanker, devoid of any consideration for others. And while I was minding my own business he waddled over and injured me. I hate him. I really really hate him.

I,m pissed. dksdfkjs dfkjshdf ksjhdf ksdjhf sdf bla bla.

Bobby Bond

I'm at the gym, on the incline bench - the one at an angle - doing chest.

There's a guy who I've never seen before bumbling about and he's the kind of guy who needs to be on a treadmillnot screwing about amongst the weights.

So I am heaving these weights up and down (you get one guess as to what comes next...)

Yeah, the fucking idiot, wanker, son of a bitch, words cannot describe how angry I am stumbles into me and knocks my arm back.

I drop the weight and grab my shoulder. It's fucking sore.

"Watch what you're fucking doing, Jesus!"

Thankfully a trainer is nearby and sees what happens.

This is good because it means any requirement for macho straight man-on-man pushing around and potential physicality is circumvented.

The trainer asks if I'm okay; I say it's fine, I think. It fucking hurts.

He tells the Wanker Idiot (my editorialisation) to watch what he's doing and if he's new, says he needs to sign up for an induction.

Good. Inside I'm standing with my arms on my hips, tutting and stamping my foot. Outside I go "yeah mate, you really need to watch what you're doing."

So I haven't done anything too bad, just stretched a deltoid or something. It's part of the shoulder.

Whenever I hear words like deltoid and bicep, I always want to do at least five minutes of Rocky Horror.

We do a few stretching exercises and now I am sat with my upper arm and shoulder covered in fucking Deep Heat.

And cue the Princess hissy fit..

"I have to be on a fucking beach in Cape Town in three months, looking like I just stepped out of the pages of Men's Health and this fucking wanker has gone and set my shoulder development back by at least three weeks. This is nearly a catastrophe. Ohmygod, my arm looks so under-developed in that picture. Fuck, there's so much to do....! Ohmygod, I yadda yadda..."

On a completely different note though - I actually feel good. All the better for having seen you...

Not now though - but 40 years ago, maybe...

Lessons from the Scriptures

I found myself at Waterloo Station which isn't really a place you'd want to be at any time of the day.

But it wasn't the thousands of people scurrying around the terminal like frightened mice that alarmed me, instead it was a few words printed on a temporary wall near the old Eurostar terminal.

That part of the station is all boarded up because Eurostar has transferred to that other huge railway shed in North London.

On these screens they have printed various whimsical facts about Eurostar's years spent to-ing and fro-ing from Waterloo.

The facts include things like; "3,768,532 glasses of champagne served", "864,977 drunken English football fans hurling racial abuse at station staff" or my favourite "243,986 shouts of 'oi, lady with the drinks cart - give me another fucking beer - you grumpy fucking Frog, you know we British fucking beat you at Waterloo and don't you ever fucking forget that...'

At least I think that's what I read on one of them. My note-taking skills are sometimes a little touch-and-go.

Anyway, one particular fact stuck out, above vast quantities of alcohol served and the xenophobic slurs issued.

This means that not only can we be sure that there are at least
10,383 people in the world with appallingly bad taste but they're also stupid and forgetful too.

There was a time in London when you could get onto a train or tube carriage and quite literally, every second person would be reading that book.

Thoroughly depressed at this thought I decided to take myself off to the Apple shop.

In there, as I have seen on so many occasions previously, I saw it. It stared back at me. It whispered to me...

If you buy me I will make your life complete.
If you buy me I will make you successful at work.
If you buy me I will make you have more friends.
If you buy me I will make you have a better body, a nicer life and better in bed.
Until you buy me, your life will just stay the stagnant wasteland that it already is.

And thus I went forth to the counter and I said Unto the Assistant; "please Sir, changeth my life unto me."

The Assistant gazed back and uttered; "Ye though you have walked in darkness for these years, I shall now, proclaim you to the light."

And thus he spake and reached out his hand and there came it forth but I not know whence from where it came.

"Go and deliver it unto that Man - he who is stood beneath the arching white glow.

And the neath the Arc the Man proclaimed "ye shall owe penance for such", and afore he uttered thus, I had brought forth Carde of NatWeste.

And Suddenly I was cast forth. Stood in the valley of Square of Hanover whence I reached into the Sack of Provinence and pulled forth the Miracle.

And around Me the choir sang and the Angels did proclaim loudly; "you fucking idiot - everytime you go into that bloody store you can't stop yourself!"

Whatever. Everyone else has one - to the point where you can't get onto a Tube carriage and not see someone playing with theirs - so why shouldn't I have one too?!

Crossroads

The project I've been working on for the last two years has been canned. It's a money thing. In TV there is no money.

I'm not out of a job because I've been on secondment. It just means I'll go back to what I was doing.

I can't believe it's come to an end. My life will return to normal.

It doesn't sound like anything important or even interesting, and the news came so swiftly, but it's so odd. Suddenly after two years of week-in-week-out grafting, everything's going to change.

Our organisation doesn't usually pay for overtime but instead chooses days off in lieu. I am owed at least 32 days off in lieu. This is besides the 15 days I am owed for annual leave.

I am tempted to put in a leave request from December 18th to April 1. I'm pretty sure it'll be turned down.

I don't want to go back to what I was doing. I have a lot of thinking to do.

Do I just quit completely and go back to studying?
Do I just quit completely and go back to Cape Town?
Do I just continue like nothing ever happened?
Do I now make the break to the States?
Do I find a better job in London and regret all of the above?

My head is in a thousand different places right now and I don't really know what to type. I am so excited and so relieved but yet so daunted by what comes next.

I am standing at a crossroads and there are, quite literally, more than 5 roads to choose from.

It's like you're lying in bed, warm and smug and suddenly your mum bangs on the door and says "right, get out - it's time for you to go and get a job because dad and I are not paying for anything anymore."

I know I should go with what my gut is telling me. Am I brave enough to do so? I don't know.

All I know is that I'm being forced to grow up and that's something I just don't / want / can't do.

From being in control of my life I am suddenly, at 30, being forced to chose my next path and I don't know what to do.

Maybe this is the time to grasp what I've always wanted to do.

Maybe on this occasion I will ignore what everyone else is saying and go with my gut. Maybe, right now, I will pursue what I've always wanted...

But the pathetic thing is, is that I'm just too scared to do anything like that. I don't know why.

Monday night

Fucken irritated because these are just some of the things he said to me:

1/ I didn't see you at the gym last night - have you changed your times?
2/ If you're going to do arms, maybe we could work out together tonight?
3/ Maybe see you tomorrow then?
4/ Don't worry - I have an extra protein sachet, would you like it?
5/ It's always better when you work out with someone else.

So tonight, after we finish I say; "what would you think about maybe going for a drink - and not a protein one, I mean...like out somewhere"

And he says; "yeah that would be really nice. I'd like that. The only thing though is that my partner's home right now -he's a trolley dolly for BA. Next week he's off to LA though - so what about then?"

I think I said "yeah - haha... yeah... fun. Er."

What an idiot.

Yeah I'd love to go out for a drink with you but only if the 'boyf' is away. What the fuck!?

I hate to jump to conclusions but he seems just the kind of guy who's like Relationship-zilla. Always refers to himself in the plural "we this" and "we that..."

But as soon as his "hubby's" off somewhere, he's down to the Chariots on a Sunday afternoon in Vauxhall getting roasted like a battery chicken on the KFC rotisserie.

"So yes", let's meet for a drink", he says.

Whatever. I lost interest very quickly, drifted off and grabbed a towel to shower.

Yeah, let's booze-it when "the trolley-dolly boyf" is away. Piss off dipstick.

Cranial urge

Now that we're all suitably freaked out by that drunk weirdo in the green video and can all move on. I don't know who that was but his eyes looked odd.

Anyway.

I want to introduce you to someone's hair. He is a guy at the gym who has one of the the most spectacular barnets I have ever seen.

I have devised some drawings to help you understand just how complex the design of this hairstyle is.

First though, here are the facts.

1/ I reckon this man is between 26 to 30 years old.
2/ He has very dark olive skin and near-black and slightly wavy hair - ethnically I would say he's Indian.
3/ As happens with so many men, he is unfortunately losing his hair but has decided to make the best of a bad situation.
4/ He's on the podgy side too and rather irritatingly will stand over you at the gym while you're busy with something. He asks if you're busy, you say 'let's share', he'll lift the weight once and then move on. Irritating.

Anyway, back to the hair.

This man with the hair - let's call him Donald - is obviously having problems coping with the fact that his hair is falling out so he's decided to embrace the issue. By pretending it isn't.

And it seems that it's not just Donald who's deluded. Donald's hairdresser must also shoulder some of the blame too, for aiding and abetting this bizarre cranial construction.

I reckon one day Donald was paging through a Men's Vogue or a copy of Arena Homme Dior Plus Divide and saw a picture of David Beckham. Donald liked the way David's hair looked...

...and Donald said to himself; "I'm gonna get me a hairstyle like that too!"

Unfortunately Donald is really thin on the top but here's what he's done.

See Exhibit 1 (best picture I could find to illustrate this):

Donald has decided to grow the hair on both sides of his head and around the back.

Then, in a feat of engineering that would make designers of the Hadron Collider blush, Donald brushes all the hair up and towards the centre of his head and styles it into a faux-hawk. It looks something like this. Exhibit 2:

It is the most bizarre thing you've ever seen. From the back it's all combed forward, from the side it looks like buttresses on a cathedral, brushed upwards to hold up the mohawk along the top.

But he combs it up and forward to try and give himself a hairline too.

The problem is, when he stands under a light, you can see he's nearly bald underneath the Mother of All Comb-overs. It's not just one comb-over. It's two on each side that meet in the centre.

It is the Machu Picu of hairstyles - I can describe to you what it looks like, but until you see it up close, you can't truly appreciate how spectacular it really is.

I guess that's why he doesn't really do anything in the gym, because he's so worried about it collapsing.

Also, sweat doesn't go well with hairspray and there must be gallons pumped into making it stand up.

It looks like an extremely intricate but spectacular ethno Alessi salad bowl turned upside down. Or one of those wispy caramelised honey creations that posh chefs plonk on top of a bowl of ice-cream to make it look good.

I wanna give him a nookie so badly. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to control myself.

Movie club Monday

This is bad:
Little Britain USA. Ohmygod, it's not even funny. Words can't even describe... Has anyone else had the displeasure of having to sit through this? Watching it is like being insulted.

It's the TV show I would use to torture my worst enemy with. It is so bad it makes me want to put the Little Britain DVD I have on eBay.
Actually, I'm embarrassed to have admitted that I own a Little Britain DVD. Bad.

This is good:
Californication. HMV are having a sale and it was only £20, marked down from £35 so I thought why not, given that I had heard so much about it.

I like it because it makes me fall in love with LA. Is there anyone reading this in LA? Cali... tries a little too hard to be like the street-cred version of Curb Your Enthusiasm - which nothing will ever come close to - but it's good.
I love Bill's 16 year old daughter who's just a nasty little vixen. It's good.

This is fucking excellent:
Gomorra. Ohmygod. I was totally blown away which is nearly an inappropriate thing to say.

Fuck. Okay, I am a gangster movie fan so I'm already halfway won over. It's about the mafia in Naples who're basically all just violent, poor and a bit fucking dum. But it's real, it's like watching real life.
Mark these words: it will be nominated for a Best Foreign Language Film at the 2009 Oscars.

It is bleak and empty and there is no redemption for anyone in the film and it is just astonishing.
I have two little bits for you. First is the brilliant theme tune from Massive Attack. I have been trying to find it to download but can't. Listen to it on YouTube.

Secondly, yes I admit. A nasty little Italian bitch with a bad attitude, in his underwear and firing a stolen automatic weapon kinda makes me a slightly excited.

I have to say that I loved Gomorra but. But! I have slightly off-key taste.

So those are my recommendations. Got any others? Movies, music and/or book suggestions will be grateful received and followed up...

Flabbergasted

This post might be a bit long which means you're welcome to pick your nose or scratch your bum throughout.

(FYI: I once saw a guy do that on the Tube; scratch his arse, as in get right in the crack, and then smell his fingers but anyway - we'll leave that for now.)

I have had one of the most extraordinary days in my life.

Remember the other day I told you that someone heard me doing a silly accent in the tea-bar?
And they said "do you mind if I pass your number onto a friend?"

Anyway, the long and the short of it is I get a call from this producer saying that some director has heard my voice and would love for me to do some voice-over work for a project they're doing for Channel 4.

(FYI: Channel 4 is a TV channel here in the UK)

Suddenly I find myself in the reception at a major post-production studio in Soho. Remember, this is all off the back of someone over-hearing me playing the fool in the tea-bar at work.

I am asked if I would like anything and I say a hot water and honey because this is what other people always ask for.

Some dude takes my bag and coat and I am told that "they're" ready for me in Studio 2.

We take the lift down and pass along a corridor plastered with posters for movies like "Saving Private Ryan", "Bridget Jones's Diary" and "Mamma Mia". These are apparently some of the films that have been mixed here.

Studio 2 is a massive room with a huge screen. Behind an enormous sound desk there are three people and is another man slumped into the leather sofa at the back. There is a large bowl of fruit and small bottles of Evian.

I literally behave like I imagine a professional would act if they were in this position. Casual small-talk and no questions about the project.

"So if you just want to take a seat over there, we'll start."

I am led to the left-hand side of the room where there is a high-chair, a music stand and four microphones.

Some other guy appears with the script and puts it in front of me. There is another man adjusting the mics.

The man who identifies himself as the director appears and says he wants to play me the film sequence over which my voice is going to appear.

I sit there thinking holy-fucking-shit-ohmygod-fuck-what-the-hell?-someone-is-going-to-pop-out-at-any-minute-and-go-Candid-Camera!

Anyway. So we start recording and I am so nervous and Take 1 quickly becomes Take 10.

Finally we get it right and the director is happy so I relax. And we move onto the second bit of script.

We're done in three takes. So we move onto the third. Done.

Fourth bit of script. Done.

Now the director has asked me to ad-lib which I do. He is impressed.

I am reading the words, with the silly accent on cue with what's happening on the screen. Finally, a little confident, I look up at the huge screen.

Fuck. I recognise that face on the massive screen! And then another face I recognise. And then a voice I recognise!

I realise that this is definitely not some project for Channel 4.

After three hours of being sat there, reading script in a silly accent and being served hot water and honey, we're done.

The lights in the studio go up and the director is happy.

"Can I just ask - that guy on the screen with the glasses, that's not so-and-so is it?"

The director laughs; "yes it is..."

"But I thought this was..."

"No, we didn't want to freak you out so I specifically asked the producer not to tell you! We're hoping for theatrical release next year. It's all been going great."

There are hand-shakes, the director says "you really should think about what you do with your voice" and I am suddenly standing in the cold on the corner of Brewer and Lexington Street.

It's not anything like Mamma Mia or Saving Private Ryan but still I cannot quite believe it.

I get back to the office and a colleague asks where I've been. I'd tell them but they wouldn't believe me.

I still can't quite believe it, I really can't.

Random incidents

There's a poster at the Tube station that asks, in big black writing; "if God were alive today, what would you ask him?"

Underneath it, in red, there's another question; "What is the purpose of my life?"

You read about all these people losing money and the value of millions of stocks being wiped and I've started to wonder what the purpose of life really is? It's definitely not money.

Okay, I'm a poover so at the moment it's not to procreate. Ladies, unless you're willing to turkey baste?

So why the hell are we here?

I know this is a pretty fundamental question and yes, I did think about it while trying to hide a fart, wait for the train and make sure nobody could hear I was listening to Supertramp.

And you stuff yourself into a Tube carriage, within centimetres of another person. But they're just an annoyance.

To you they're not someone who has their own life, their own feelings and insecurities and disappointments and triumphs.

Sometimes I look at people and think about slapping them or pulling their hair. Not because I want to hurt them but because I have this urge to connect with their life for a split second.

I think instead of pulling their hair (and trust me, sometimes I really want to yank their goddam locks as hard as possible, especially when they get onto the train before you've got off) but anyway.

Instead of pulling their hair I think I'm going to try and do an act of random kindness. But I don't want whoever it is to know that it's me.

Because everyone's so gloomy I feel like maybe the point of life right now is spread some cheer. I just need to think of a way of doing it that is totally anonymous, non-stalkerish and won't land me up in court for being a perv or trespassing etc.

I am going to have to think about this one.

Bottles at the back

There's a beautiful wine farm on the outskirts of Cape Town called Boschendal (say: "Bosh-in-dahl".)

When I was very little my parents took my sister and I there for a picnic. We thought it would be fun to hide from them so we climbed into the boot of my dad's car.

It took my parents "ages" to find us. They were "nearly about to call the police you two were so well hidden!"

Over the years, whenever we've had special family birthdays and anniversaries we've always gone for lunch to the restaurant at Boschendal because the Sunday buffet is amazing.

I remember once pigging out on the oysters and brandy snaps.

When I turned 21 my dad opened a huge bottle of Boschendal Lanoy to celebrate.

The last time we were was last year, my sister back from San Francisco, me and my mum and dad.

Earlier today I was in the Sainsbury's near my house. A day when everything and everyone is a little depressed and gloomy.

And in the aisle towards the back of the shop I go to the rack marked "South African". There Kate Bush is on my iPod singing.

Just being alive, it can really hurt.
These moments given are a gift from time.
Just let us try to give these moments back
To those we love, to those who will survive
And because I'm a little odd, I just stand near the bottles and think about where they've made their way from.

On some days just I feel homesick, I don't know why. It's just because.

We run this shit

It's Saturday and I have nothing to do. So I made a music video.

London Prepped

Hollywood rarely makes films about Hollywood because audiences don't really care.

Which I guess is much the same as blogging. Blogging about blogging can be a little tedious but I thought I'd make an exception.

In May last year there was a blog that was only about a month old.

I don't know if the person who wrote the blog noticed me or if I noticed them but an e-mail arrived. (Thanks to GMail, all these things are saved...)

It reads something like:

"Hi there,
I have a blog but I wanted some people to read it. Do you have any advice on how I could promote it maybe?
Cheers."

I wrote back that I wasn't really sure but I would write something on my blog to tell people about him.

He said he was only getting about 50 hits a day and no comments. He said he'd like just a few more people to read what he'd taken the time to write.

I posted the following...

"I want to introduce you to a person whose blog I've found.
He lives in London and, in a rather unnerving and breezy fashion, details just how much he's destroyed his life.
At the moment he's teetering on the edge of an addiction to painkillers.
And occasionally he flogs his sweaty underwear on eBay.
It's all rather amusing in the same way that a car crash on the M25 is.
I think you'll enjoy reading it, just as I do.

Here's a link to that blog...

Don't get me wrong. A blog is a blog is a blog - nothing more. It's writing on the internet, done by someone you've never met.

However sometimes you do end up following what people have written and taking an interest in their condition.

I've never properly met London Preppy, we've probably exchanged no more than 10 words in real life but somehow I feel like I know him. That's the funny thing with these blogs.

Tomorrow I could be sat next to him or any one of you on the Central Line, if you were in London. We are nothing more than a few words in cyberspace. I am not Bobby. I am not a blog. I am none of this. But thanks to a few words, on here, I am everything.

Now, nearly 18 months later it's time to change what I first wrote.

I once read about a guy on the internet who used to think he had destroyed his life but I don't think it was destroyed. The last I heard he went to Sydney. I hope he went and found what I think he was looking for.

So farewell then London Preppy.

But before you go, I have just one thing to admit....

Okay, I did actually end up wearing them on the beach. And I pulled someone as a result, so they worked.

Anyway.

All the very best and I think you owe me a signed fucking copy of the book when it appears.

Let's twist again

So who the fuck turned the dial to the setting marked Winter?

We didn't even have an autumn because suddenly the streets are filled with leaves and at night there is frost on all the cars. Bloody hell it's cold.

There is an upside to this though.

Tonight the gym was absolutely empty, just as it was last night.

My guess this is for two reasons; first is that it's now too cold and no-one can be bothered. Instead everyone is sitting at home eating chicken pie and drinking red wine. Fuckers, I hate them.

Second is that our gym is usually packed with boys in T-shirts that say Lehman Brothers, JP Morgan and Credit Suisse on the back.

Due to the credit crunch I think they're all too stressed out to come.

I guess they're all in their towers in Canary Wharf, with their head in their hands - the tears of despair slowly stain their keyboards as they realise that they're not going to make their £124,000,000 annual bonus.

No more renting apartments from Foxtons for a million pounds a month. No more leased Aston Martins. No spraying champagne around nightclubs in St James for the sake of it. Poor diddums.

So the nice thing is, while all the city boys are stressing out about how they're going to pay off their RBS Black card and (I think we've had enough of the anti-City boy sarcasm please... Ed.)

Anyway, the point is that the gym is empty which is great because it means that if you need, you can fart and no-one's the wiser.

And you can listen to the 8-minute version of the Pet Shop Boys 12" Thunderpuss Goddess remix of Liza Minnelli's Losing My Mind and no-one else will hear it and think "God, that is so gay."

I still self-censor on the Tube though. There is some music I will expressly not listen to, incase somebody overhears me listening to it. The assumptions can be devastating.

And since you don't have to face me on a daily basis I might as well tell you what some of the banned list includes:

1/ The Xanadu soundtrack.
I love Xanadu and Olivia Newton John but it's not for public consumption ever. Even when I'm alone I listen to this with headphones on just incase.

2/ ABBA
Okay I have all the ABBA albums and I know all the words. Imagine you were standing next to a guy on the Tube and you heard "so when you're near me, dahling can't you hear me, SOS!" What would you think?!

3/ Hmm... iTunes tells me I've listened to the Bayside Boys remix of the Macarena three times. This can't be right. It's not mine.

4/ And when the fuck did Jive Bunny and the Mastermixers make its way onto my iPod? I swear I have no idea what that's doing there either.

"C-c-c-c-come on let's twist again... like we did last did last did last did last summer."

Oh shut up, this list is a silly idea.

Speaking of the Tube, I have a conundrum for you. Spotted on the Central Line between Holland Park and Bond Street...

Torn jeans, long hair, long defined legs, necklaces, a handbag and flat leather lace-up shoes.

Is it a girl dressed up like a boy? Or a boy dressed up like a girl?

I'm never drinking again

Oh for fuck's sake.

I knew it was a bad idea to go out drinking last night but I never learn from my mistakes.

The moment I said to Sean "yes, I'll meet you at the North London Tavern for one drink only" is the moment I should have seen how the next 12 hours would play out.

Sean and his friend Anna were there. He's gay, she's English and uses the word cunt an awful amount.

I then proceeded on the task I cannot help myself from doing - to unravel all the hard work I'd put in at the gym over the last week.

I drank beer and more beer and more beer until it was gone midnight. Maybe? Anna left and Sean and I stayed and we had another one. Or maybe two. Or three actually.

At one point I remember that it was absolutely essential that I have McDonalds. And my drunk logic is this; a big Mac meal makes you fat so instead I had two (these numbers are pretty vague too) Fillet O'Fish's and two-ish McChicken sandwiches and probably another cheeseburger.

This morning I woke up with the worst fucking hangover (still a bit drunk) while cold, naked and tangled up in the duvet. Nice start to a fucking Monday.

I make my way into work but after a few hours of trying to do something I do the polite thing and leave.

Now at home again I knock over a jar of sand I have from the beach in Newquay which means I have to vacuum.

While doing that I trip, pull and then break the pipe of the vacuum cleaner. I've been trying to wind the goddam thing back into the holder.

Fuck sakes.

Last night I should have put a load of washing on, gone to bed and read a book.

It's always a bad idea to go out drinking on a Sunday night, no matter what. You'd think by now I would have learnt my lesson.

Meanwhile, a little later...

Check this out! Batman goes to our gym.

Bring out your dead

Don't panic. I've been to Highgate Cemetery so you don't have to.

I've wanted to go since I came to London six years ago but just haven't made the effort.

Over the last two days the weather has been spectacular so I dragged myself there. What an utterly beautiful, spectacular and peaceful place it is.

I decided to sit on a bench in front of the London Fire Brigade memorial and I must have been there for about half an hour just sitting and being. It is such an amazing place to be still.

Here are some pictures I took. I hope you like them...