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I'm not very good when it comes to being told what to do. This doesn't help much, given that I work at a place where the Healthy & Safety brigade are pretty strident.

In fact, my colleague Lucy and I are both very unaccommodating when it comes to being told what we should and shouldn't do. This is why we use the paper shredder as a doorstop and piles of tapes as bookends.

As you can imagine, both of these are definite no-nos.

We've also been asked by our office Health and Safety zealot not to leave bags on the floor (they could block the path to the fire exit) and not to pile reams of paper next to the printer (they could fall and hurt someone).

My response is standard; "well, if you need to move them then please do..."

Funnily enough this is not the best way to engender cordial working relations which is why, I think, the Heath and Safety fanatics are out to get us.

Today I was told that my desk was a health hazard and that I should think about cleaning it up. It's no surprise that this suggestion went down like a bucket of cold sick.

Does that look like a mess to you? I mean, do they want us to do some work or exist in some ridiculously sterile environment devoid of character and creativity?

That's how I left it to go home and that's how it's going to stay, ropey tennis racket and all.

Health and Safety my arse. God, it's feels so satisfying to say that.

I'm being screwed

I am ruined. Absolutely gone and tomorrow it's going to be even worse.

Here is the recipe for how to annihilate yourself in a few easy steps.

Step 1: Wednesday evening
After work, instead of going home and getting ready for bed in preparation for 14-hour day on Thursday, go out with South African mate and cane three bottles of beautiful Boschendal wine.

Step 2: Thursday morning, 4am
Wake up because of bedroom light which is still on, sprawled naked on bed. Stagger into pyjamas.

Step 3: Thursday morning, 6am
Wake up by alarm clock / phone ringing because cab is car is waiting outside. Put on clothes, have no breakfast and pile into car.

Step 4: Thursday
Spend day in sun at Major Tennis Tournament in SW19 dealing with presenters, camera crews, scripts, microphones, arsey security guards, bad accreditation, people who don't park where they're told, people who hear but don't listen, people who wander off, people who don't care, people who can't speak in complete sentences. All this with the help of ONE large Starbucks latte.

Step 5: Thursday lunchtime
Feel faint but soldier on regardless in the sun. Sweating alcohol and hanging in on four hours' sleep.

Step 6: Thursday evening
Spend two hours in traffic through Roehampton and Hammersmith while getting back to the office where the work continues. Still hungry, sunburnt nose and smelly because got dressed in hurry and didn't put deodorant on and have been running around in the sun all day.

Do more work at the office.

Step 7: 23.20-ish
Get home, undress, put on pyjamas and reply to email. Then think "shit, I should write a blog or something" but look at time.
t's just about midnight and tomorrow morning at 6am another car is coming to pick me up to take me back to work for another 14-hour day.
I need to go to sleep now otherwise tomorrow's going to be another fucking nightmare of

Gym sucks

Shit. I have absolutely and completely lost my gym mojo. I simply cannot be bothered.

22:00 updates in red: I can be bothered because I've just got back and I did arms.

What does one do in this situation? I have bought some new books and changed all the music on my iPod shuffle but nothing seems to be working.
I just listened to the same songs over and over, particularly the Freemasons remix of Disco's Revenge by Gusto

I walk in and the energy just drains from me. Maybe I need a new gym?

I think this is a serious proposition. The place I go to now is so tedious.

Going to gym feels like I'm being forced to read a biology textbook. Words like pectoral and tricep mean about as much to me as mitochondria and osmosis. Who the fuck cares?

It's London Pride on July 5th and I have a new vest I wanted to wear, and I'm going to look like a muppet unless I get into the gym and start getting into shape but fuck it.

I'm going to wear this vest even though I'm going to look like an out of shape loser. Fuck being body-conscious. (I know I'm going to regret that comment.)

Even writing about the gym bores me.

It still does so I don't know why I'm coming back to this post. A bit like a dog returning to its own pool of sick. Has that made you a little queasy? Do you even care?

I didn't go for about 10 days while in South Africa and my stomach is in a bad shape but who can be bothered?

I did sit-ups so that's fine. I did about 100 of them and some cardio. 

I want cake and beer and chips and tomato sauce.

I think I am going to substitute these cravings for jelly. Jelly is non-fattening, if you make it with water surely? What is it anyway? It's water and gelatin shit.

Stressing about the way I looked was something I did in my 20s. Screw that now.

Okay; breathe, breathe.

"Bobby, get into the gym and start to make an effort you lazy fucking bastard. Remember how nice it feels to look great without a shirt on. Get in there and get stuck in. For fucks' sake."

Even my self-motivation skills are lacking.

Tonight at the gym I am going to do cardio and then some sit-ups and that's if I actually even get there.

I did that.

Will someone please just come and shoot me with the gun of indifference. Like now.

Well, don't really shoot me but do you want a nice poem I found?

If you're ever obsessed with someone you can send it in a card to them. Great to freak them out with it. I love it...

Separation by W.S. Merwin

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its colour.
And that's the end now. If you want more entertainment, go and roof-rattle your neighbours. Or shit in some newspaper, light it and put it on their doorstep and then ring the bell.

Can anyone recommend any music to me? Obscure stuff. I need my horizons broadening. I want good stuff. Okay, you have to answer this, "what's the last CD you bought / downloaded?"

Total zen

This morning I fell out of bed at around 9am because I hate being part of something that everyone else is doing. Everyone else in London is walking to the Tube station or getting into the office and moaning about it being Monday.

I, on the other hand, leap out of bed and go outside to stand in the beautiful morning sunshine for ten minutes. It's good to be otherwise.

While standing in the crisp London air (cue shaking of house and sound of British Airways Mega-Jumbo blast overhead) I listen to Day Too Soon by Sia. This is a nice start.

To dress, it's retro 80s tune-time. Who remembers Landscape's Einstein a-go-go? I love this song because to everyone else having to hear it, it's the height of fucking annoyance. That goddam electric flute, man.

Thankfully the Tube is not busy because everyone's now at work but the Jubilee Line is fucked and so is the Central Line.

Fucked means it's running late or it's on the wrong tracks or there's someone under the train at Mile End (what are they doing under there?) or the drivers are sick.

I don't mind waiting for the train because having listened to Good Morning Baltimore from Hairspray on the way to the station, I'm in a zen-like Marcia-fucking-Brady trance.

"Marcia! Marcia! Marcia!"

Holy fuck, jokes aside. Will you look these shoes...

Who the fuck has purple shoes? Someone on who got on at Baker Street station, that's who. They're fucking purple, like rum & raisin.

He got on, sat down and my eyes nearly burst out of my head. Purple, with whites socks and a silver suit. I was tempted to ask him; "dude, what the hell do you think you're trying to prove?"

Purple and white smeary leather shoes. If you're going to do that sort of thing on the Tube at least try and be discreet like sitting in an empty carriage or something.

If the song Hollaback Girl was a pair of shoes, it would be those bastards. That shit is bananas. B-a-n-a-n-a-s. Even writing about that song and those shoes is making a little mini-vomit in my throat.

By the time I get into the office I am back in my beautiful zen, thanks to Katherine Ellis and the Freemasons.

All together now; "Baby when you touch me on my body, I loose every feeling that I used to know...I'm losing my mind, here I go!"
FYI: This song is called When You Touch Me by The Freemasons, featuring Katherine Ellis

Oh yeah, while I think about it, none of you bitches got me anything for my birthday. You should be ashamed of yourselves.

If you want to put yourself in the good books you can get me one of two things.

Either him...

Or him...

Now go and get. Please.

Another beginning

Warning: Herewith follows the ramblings of a smug cunt, proceed at your own risk. Bring the sick bag, use the gun as you wish.

I've sat down, having just got in.

A few hours ago I was standing in the gym change-room in a towel. Getting dressed at the bench opposite is a young blonde turk, cute with a great body. He looks at me and I glance back but then find fascination with something else.

He looks at me again, I glance back at him. And again. His staring is making me a little nervous so I put on the straightest swagger I can muster to go and get a tissue to wipe my nose. On the way back he looks at me again.

"Don't you have somewhere to go to?"

I think "fuck, he thinks I'm cruising him. Fuck. And he's straight and I am really not... Shit." Me, completely defensively; "I don't know what you're talking about - I'm about to go home..."

Now doing aggro-straight; "and what are you trying to say?" He, almost apologetically, "sorry, no I... don't worry."

I leave it at that and wait for him to leave. Outside the door of the gym he is standing, playing with his phone. I walk out and don't even glance at him. But this is weird so I stop a few metres from him and pull my phone out of my bag to play with.

And then he walks on ahead. About 20 feet down the pavement he turns around to look at me and flicks his head for me to come over. Fuck... does this really mean what I think it does?

I catch up with him. He puts his hand out and I shake it.

"Sorry, the words didn't come out my mouth like they should have. I meant; 'if you've got nothing to do, would you like to go somewhere.'"

Me, amused and somehow getting all the words in the right order; "oh, right..! I didn't know what you meant. Listen, no-one has ever been quite that direct with me in the gym. Sorry, I was just completely taken aback..."

His voice drops "sorry, yeah I saw you and thought I would just ask because it didn't look like it was going to work any other way and I would be kicking myself if you got away. So would you like to do something?"

"Mate, I am flattered and because you did it so confidently, I have such respect. Really, that is a first.

"Does that mean 'no' then?"

"Does it fuck? Mate how could I ever say 'no' to the confidence that you plucked up to ask me. So your place or mine?"

"Well my parents are away..."

21 years old, at University and lives with his (wealthy, it seems) parents who're on holiday. We spent a good solid hour and a half doing interaction work.

Afterwards I am lying and looking at the ceiling. "Is everything okay, you seem distracted."

"No, I just suddenly thought "what the fuck am I doing here... this was never in my work-out schedule!" We laugh.

So there. I cannot fucking believe it.

My first interaction as a 30 year old and he was 21. And he picked me up at the gym.

I decide to walk home because it's not that far. iPod on, I stick on a little ditty by Marilyn Manson; "The Reflecting God", from his Last Tour on Earth CD.

And Manson sings....

Die, shoot, shoot motherfucker!
Shoot! Shoot! Shoot motherfuckers...

Young scum, can you feel my power?
Shoot! Shoot! Shoot motherfuckers...

Young, scum can you feel my power?
Shoot! Shoot! Shoot motherfuckers...
While Mr Manson spits and screams into my ear I gently smile to myself.

I will probably see him at the gym again. He was hot. He had a sixpack. Perhaps we might do it again. The first interaction of my 30s, of the new leaf, of the new me.

This is how I hoped these years would be. I know, I know! It's just casual. Whatever.

I sacrifice those who've been before tonight, all on the altar of learning.

My life began at 30. So far so good. Let's call him Gareth.

The books aren't his

Look at this poor fucker in the Borders earlier today...

Sat on the bench in filthy clothes he had a bottle of vodka and fruit juice at his feet while slumped into a book. It didn't look like he was reading much.

Did he have a home to go to or was a he facing another night on the street?

Maybe he was once a brave soldier who went to fight in Iraq and came back with the horrors of war etched on his conscience. Now just a wreck, wasted. A few weeks after his return the screams in his head became too loud and he beat up his pregnant girlfriend, she lost their young baby. Families don't want him as theirs.

Maybe he was once a model with good hair and abdominal definition who developed a drug habit so he turned to making himself available for a fee. Perhaps towards the end he would let old guys fuck him for crack. He is not gay but the preying homosexuals fucked the life out of him. He's slumped there with his blackened fingernails and yellow teeth, now too ugly for anyone to want to fuck him.

Perhaps he was a juvenile thug who grew up on an estate with parents who were abusive and alcoholics. With no-one to call family he's now sat in the bookstore, crying into the books he wish he could understand.

But he's too drunk and exhausted so his eyes close and he slumps into the book he can't comprehend. He stinks and people move away from him. He is rejected.

Except for a brief moment. As someone walks past they spot him and photograph him with their mobile phone. They get home and post the picture on their blog. And hundreds of people around the world get a glimpse of some mother's son, drunk and alone, slumped in a bookstore with a bottle of vodka at his feet.

Plane wish

On the plane on the way back I got so bored that I had a sneaky self-encounter.

According to Wikipedia, this means I have technically joined the Mile High Club but since I was alone and no-one else saw, I don't how much of an achievement this is?

I was sat right up at the front of the plane which means I wasn't sat next to anyone. It was at about 4am and we were over the Central African Republic or something. God, long-haul is so fucking tedious.

Still, it was a novel way to pass about 30 minutes. Yes, it took that long because you had to do a dry-run which meant simulating movements to make sure no-one else was likely to see. These manoeuvres include managing evidence and blanket jiggery tests.

Oh god, not that I'm embarrassed if anyone spotted me during my performance but imagine the shame of having other people think "poor dude, has to wank himself off because he has no-one else to do it for him."

And can I whinge? Thanks... Why is it that there are never fit guys who work on planes? The guy whose job it was to throw the food and warm towelettes at us was just so like they all are. Preened, slightly camp and hair like it's on purpose.

I want to get onto a plane and have some guy called Josh attend to me. Josh would have three-day stubble, a healthy tan with big rugged hairy arms and dressed in a shirt, unbuttoned to show off his ample pec definition.

At dinner time, when outlining the onboard choice, he would ask whether I wanted the chicken or beef. And as he said the word beef he would flex his massive bicep which would in-turn burst from and rip his shirt.

Not that big-hairy-masculine-muscle-bears are my thing but imagine this guy having to check that you're tightly fastened.

And just before taking-off and spending 12 hours in the air together he would lean over you and say "all of my equipment is in the upright position, I hope yours is too..."

Point and snigger

The one thing about tattoos is that they're permanent.

Yes, laser bla bla bla. If you could erase them as easily as you get them done, everyone would have one. Me included.

I thought about getting one for my 30th. Fuck knows what it would have been but my sister got one on her 21st and so I thought it would be something to make life a little more interesting. I never bothered though.

I couldn't put my finger on exactly why wasn't keen on tattoos, that was, until I was out on Saturday night.

The thing with them is this...

Yes, everyone calls them Tramp Stamps but I've been called worse.
Yes, they're permanent but screw that. Whatever.
Yes, when you get arrested one of the first things the police do is to note down the details of any tattoos you may have. Bla bla. I have blue eyes. They can note that down if they like.

Do you know what the problem with tattoos is? Everyone's too polite to tell you what they really think.

So I'm out with friends at a poove bar in Cape Town. I'm talking about getting a tattoo and my best friend Ian says "Bobby, have you seen Mia's tattoo?"

I go "no, who's Mia and what's so interesting about her tattoo...?" and Ian says "wait til you see this." So Ian goes to find Mia on the dancefloor so that she can show me her tattoo. They come over and at first she's reluctant.

Of course others in our group have also become curious. "Mia, let's see it then..."

So Mia lifts up her top and pulls down her jeans slightly. There it is, just above the hairline to her nether bits.

And everyone goes "ohmygod!". "Wow." "Jeez, that's interesting" But not one person said what they really thought until Mia was out of earshot.

Under Rug Swept

I'm still in Cape Town.

Last night I was in a club, a club called Navigaytion. Because they wanted to call it Navigation but since it's a club that's mostly frequented by homosexual men, they changed altered the name to Navigaytion.
Do you see how they've added that extra 'Y'? Clever...

Anyway, so Navigaytion is a club above the Bronx Action Bar. And anyone who's a gay who's been to Cape Town will have been to Bronx. This is because Bronx is the only gay bar in Cape Town.

Can I please just say that I am the James Bond of gay? The same can be said of me, as it can of Commander Bond - I always get my man.

Do you know when you're on the dancefloor and you see someone and in your mind you think "dude, you're mine."

And then you dance over to them a bit and they catch your eye and then you smile and and and...

Well last night I was on the dancefloor in Navigaytion (with a 'Y') and I saw this guy and I thought "dude, you're mine" and I moved over to him a bit.

Anyway about 30 minutes later we were in a corner near the dancefloor and he was kissing my neck and I thought to myself, "I always get my man."

I'm sorry if I sound like a smug cunt but you know what it's like in Gay Club Dance world. It's bloody survival of the fittest. He was quite fit with great pectoral development.

This picture above is what the inside of the club is like.

Anyway so while I was interacting with Pec Man I thought it but didn't say it; "kissing you is fun because it's totally boosting my self esteem." We didn't spend the whole evening together or even leave in the same car but for about 20 minutes we were married. It was great. We swapped numbers.

What wasn't great what happened about an hour earlier.

One of the barman in Navigaytion (with a 'Y') was quite cute and had a Very Nice Body.

Anyway, between Navigaytion and Bronx there are a few staircases which connect the two venues. In one of the stairwells, while on the way to the loo, I happened upon the cute barman with a great body giving a punter a blow-job, who was not really my type but good looking.

And when you see this, a wave of emotions crash around you.

First is envy. Obviously. "I wish he was bloody doing that to me." And then you get a bit irritated because of the envy. And then you get a bit jealous. And then you think "that's really not cool" but you only think that because you're a bit jealous that two young hotdogs are making out like that.

And in the second that you've spotted them and felt all of that, you do an about-turn and walk away instantly. You do this because you want to make it obvious that you're not interested in what they're doing and it doesn't bother you.

But while walking away you get a little more irritated. Just because.

Maybe they didn't even see me. Hopefully they carried on and some letch came and tried to join in and ruined their fun. Me, bitter? You betcha!

It's like standing in the queue for a cubicle in a club and out of one of the stalls walk two half-naked men who could pass as Abercrombie models. There's always a little something inside you that dies because you know they weren't in there talking about the weather.

It's a shit feeling. Whatever.

Here's another random picture...

Now.

This is a bit like a game of poker. This blog that is. I mean, you don't want to play all your best cards at once. So I'm going to save something for tomorrow. It involves a tattoo and you won't believe your eyes. Seriously.

Blood in the souffle

When you come back to a place where you used to live there are three groups of people who you are in contact with.

Firstly, there are people who you want to see more of. Then there are people who you're just glad to see and finally there are people who you don't really want to hook-up with but feel duty-bound to do so.

I am supposed to be having lunch with Melissa. I'll let you guess which category Melissa fits into...

Dear Melissa,

My dearest, dear, beautiful and lovely Melissa. You are so boring.

You once lived next door to my flat while we were at University. We have nothing in common.

A few weeks ago you e-mailed me and asked about my 30th. How could I not say I was coming to Cape Town?

Today we are supposed to be having lunch. I tried to make it today because I knew you'd be working and so we'd have to keep it short.

Melissa, I'm having trouble typing this. It hurts me as much as it hurts you.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains*
Melissa, I will donate R10 to a charity for abused animals every time you do any one of the following...

1/ Make a disparaging remark about why I choose to live in London
2/ Make a disparaging remark about black people
3/ Tell me how much you enjoy watching Prison Break and then try to convince me to do the same.

I will add an extra R10 to my third point if you try to entice me by explaining the plot. Melissa, it is me who is being held against my will, more than you will ever realise.

I have been half in love with easeful Death
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme
I am going to pack a little bag of HB pencils, all nicely sharpened and during our meal I will quietly snap them under the table.

And as you dominate the conversation you will not see the drops of blood from my hands, staining the starched white serviette, splinters of the pencil gashing and tearing into my skin.

Once the pencils are all broken in two I will find the sharpest edge from one of them and gouge lines down my thighs as you drone on about bloody black people, bloody South Africa, bloody crime, bloody this, bloody that.

Melissa, it will be me who is bloodied. Bruised. Broken.

Now more than ever seems it rich to die
To cease upon the midnight with no pain
The bill will arrive and you will find something to quibble about but the light will have broken. Once we have finished I will get up and the spatters of blood and flesh, smeared against the tablecloth, will vanish.

"Bobby, it's always so much fun. You should come around tomorrow night or something."

"Yes, Melissa, thank you, I will call you, perhaps." Hopefully you won't answer and I will leave a message. But you just won't get it.

* = From John Keats, Ode to a Nightingale, May 1819.

Am Not Dog

Today I dressed the dog up in a silly hat and I went out for lunch with Charlotte. At lunch with Charlotte I drank beer and ate the kind of food I wouldn't dare; mashed potato and steak.

And tonight I went out with Dad and I had more wine and gin & tonic. And when I am not eating or drinking I am sleeping because it's June in Cape Town and the rain is beating against the window and the wind is howling.

Last night I was with Andrew, a friend from school who I've known for 17 years. We drank white wine and flirted with boys. Andrew is the worst fucking enabler into this type of lifestyle because he works in IT, has a personal trainer and can therefore drink without consequence.

I have none of that and even now, while typing this, I have a G&T sitting next to me. I know I should remember that we are actually in the middle of summer in London, when boys are wearing tight T-shirts and shorts but fuck that.

When I get back home I will nail the gym. I will stick my finger down my throat twice a day and singe my liver and kidneys with creatine.

I've been pissed since the Virgin Atlantic departure lounge. Coming to Cape Town in the winter is like trying to hold a gay pride parade in Saudi Arabia. Everybody wants to get up and do something but certain factors mean that most people just end up not bothering.

In this case that factor is the weather. It's cold and the strong gale means that the rain falls horizontally. The beach is not even an option. It's cold and wet.

Whatever. Now that I am 30, I don't care. Lights, disco and beautiful boys? Fuck it.. wait until tomorrow. Tonight I am going to sit and watch TV as the storm clouds burst over the house.

Enough of the fucking weather crap, I'm pissed and I am going to collapse into bed. Let's all get together and sing Kum Ba Ya (My Lord).

At the moment the only thing that's sharing my bed with me is a big and beautiful cat called Grease. She has that silly name because my dad found her as a kitten in a muddle of grease at a petrol station.

Don't dis my pussy. She's da shiz.

Okay, I could be starting to rap. Enough.

Birthday Bobby

So yesterday it was June 9th which means I turned 30. Mum, Dad and I went out to celebrate the Special Day. I decided on the restaurant and even though I know pictures of food are fucking tedious, this is my main course. It tasted much better than it looked in this picture...

There are three types of animal on this plate; wildebeest, springbok and ostrich. And as we chomped our way through the bits of dead animal, we all reminisced about Bobby's last 30 years on planet earth.

Thanks to my mother's strange passion for scrap-booking and my dad's scanner, I am able to share these years with you.

My dad was in the Air Force and loved racing his cars, so you can imagine his massive excitement when my mother realised in 1977 that she was going to have a boy.

It would be someone for my dad to pass on his love of flying jets and racing cars. One-day Daddy's lovely son would be clever and successful, inherit Daddy's business, settle down and marry with kids.

The problem with poor Bobby was that Mummy kept playing bloody ABBA records and let him put the wrong sort of clothes into the dressing up box.

Please note how the hangbag and shoes complete the look.

However, Bobby's father would say "no, Bobby wants to be a motorbike racer, see how happy he looks on it!"

But Bobby's dad's efforts were completely overwhelmed. Here we see Bobby dressed up in a doiley for lunch.

The fan on the table indicates this was some sort of Japanese/geisha theme. And there will be no comments on the grotesque furniture either. And then Bobby had a sister...

And at the dinner table last night Bobby also tried reminisce about how he and his sister used to fight and scream at each other. But my parents don't remember any of that.

They think my sister and I had a completely normal and happy childhood. I have managed to work out most of my shit on my own but my sister has had to have help from psychologists.

So when I'm out for dinner with my parents and we're celebrating my 30th birthday, they say things like "you had a very happy childhood didn't you?" I am past the stage of going "are you joking?!" Or "do you have any idea of the shit you put me and my sister through..."

The problem with my mum and dad is that they were expecting a boy and a girl who would grow up to become "normal", just like them.

They expected their son to take over his dad's business, get married and have kids. They wanted their daughter to be married early too and give them more young children to dote on.

It became clear that this wasn't going to happen but they refused to believe it. Instead they would say things like "as long as we're alive, you two will do as we tell you." That was their mantra, I can still hear them saying it.

Boys did not listen to Madonna or want to perform on stage, instead they went to karate as I was forced to do. Girls were not supposed to like computer games or get caught smoking in their school uniform.

Last night, while at the table, my sister phoned from California and I spoke to her and for a moment we were playing happy families. And we raised our glasses and my mother said "Bobby, we're very proud of you" and instead of what I thought, out of my mouth came the word "thanks."

For pudding my mother said "Bobby, please order the ice-cream so that dad and I can have some of it". But in spite of them I ordered the chocolate mousse, described on the menu as flamboyant.

"Oh", I said to the waitress, "and they will have plain old ice-cream but please could you bring two spoons with it, so they can share it."

At least they got their ice-cream but it was just not how they were expecting it.

Broken

I regained consciousness somewhere over northern Africa. I drank some water and passed out again.

I have had too much champagne and too much wine.

In my bag I had R30 left over from my last trip to South Africa in March. At Johannesburg there was only one thing to do with the money.

At 9am I nursed my aching hangover with a beer. It was cold. And it was bitter. Just heavenly.

I sat at Johannesburg International Airport in the same clothes from the day before, smelly, hungover and tired. Crusty and not having brushed my teeth for 12 hours.

Me. Broken.

But now I am here, 10,000 miles from London. I feel like the airforce, RAF.

Rough As Fuck but nearly home.

Journey starts maybe

07:48

So. This should be interesting.

In a few hours I leave for Heathrow. I will travel on the Heathrow Express which will leave from Paddington Station.
After a short journey on the Express I will get off at the station marked "Terminals 1, 2 & 3" upon which I will walk up to the concourse.

There, I will approach the Virgin Atlantic desks and get my bags checked-in for VS601 bound for Johannesburg, South Africa. The flight leaves the UK at 20.30 tonight.

Why am I telling this? Because the laundry basket is still overflowing and the suitcase is, well...

Look at it. It's loaded with old clothes and is sitting in the cupboard. Fuck.

What I do have though is this, from my last trip to Cape Town in March...

R30 is about £2. With this R30 I am going to buy myself a big fat huge stinking Castle Lager when I get to Johannesburg. Not because I damn-well deserve it after the crap of the last few days but because it will be a bloody miracle if I get totally packed and ready in time.

My getting ready could not have been done last night because I got very drunk and fell asleep on the sofa. When I got home my housemate was waiting at the door with a huge glass of red wine. I ended up polishing off the bottle and more.

So I have a hangover, am not packed and can't really pack anything because it's all filthy and my head hurts. Hooray!

I need to go to the Sainsbury's and holy shit. Okay, I think I'm going to stop bollocking about and get on with it. Fuck. Panic. Okay.

14:30
Right, so we're packed and ready to leave for the airport in an hour or so.

You may or may not know this but basically I am King of Upgrades. Six flights to South Africa in five years, all upgraded. I have a serious reputation to protect.

There are a few tricks when blagging an upgrade and one of them is to dress well so I have co-ordinated. I have decided my look should be "polo prep".

With a photo of my outfit and a few Photoshopped trees, this is a blueprint of the tone I am going for...

The jersey is totally strategic because if you don't get upgraded you wear it to hide the shirt. That way you don't look like an over-dressed numpty in Economy.

I am going to finish getting ready. See you at the airport.

18:00
Boys, boys, boys and Liz.

I am officially the undisputed King of Upgrades.

I bought an Economy Class ticket and I have blagged my way to Upper Class. But not just Upper Class on Virgin Atlantic. No, no... I am sitting and typing this in the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse.

To get into here you need to flash the airline's Gold Card or er, that's it.

In this Clubhouse there is non-stop service and everything is free. In fact, I think there is someone in the loo who'll wipe your bum with a freshly moisturised hand, should you request it.

I have nestled myself between a glass of champagne and the mushroom linguine.

Yes, some woman brings you a menu, you order what you like and it arrives. Brilliant.

There are a lot of very fat rich people wandering around. After the events of the last few days I am going to sit back and gulp the complimentary champagne. At this rate I might have to be helped onto the aircraft.

Maybe things aren't so bad. Life is fine. Screw the bastards on that silly job.

Of course it can't all be good and if I was to be honest I would say the following...

Drinking complimentary champagne in a five-star environment is a blast. I just wish that I had someone to share it with.

See you in South Africa.

Mousse on the loose

Gentleman and those few ladies out there. I give you...

A Ferrari F430 Spider. Now this is a car. A 4litre V8, it's enough to make your teeth rattle. I spotted it parked outside the gym this evening.

Driving this car would be like... Okay, do you see this guy?

Imagine him walking up to you and saying, "I want you to take me back to your place and I want you to take advantage of me in every way you know possible..."

That, my pretties, is what driving an F430 is like. I would sell my body and lick the dirt off a beggar's balls to own one.

Seeing machines like that makes me very sad. The longing and yearning I feel cannot be described in words. So I won't try.

Speaking of things that give you a party in your panties, can we please look at this...

Before we leap into the chocolate pudding please can we note one thing.

Please look at the doodle on the paper on the right. See, a lot of planning, design and time went into the thing you're reading now. Well, a scribble at least. The drawing is not planted, I promise.

Anyway, so the chocolate pudding. Imagine cold, smooth and rich chocolate, against the roof of your mouth. Then look at this...

It's like fucking food porn. I am going to have to limit myself to one a week.

I had it because as we know, today I was celebrating my Not Birthday. And what a wonderful day it was, thanks for asking.

This birthday was a test-run for the main event which begins on Saturday at Heathrow airport (that's when I fly to Seth Efrika).

On my Not Birthday I took the Central Line to work, going in a little later than normal the carriage was completely empty. So I sang Happy Birthday to myself between Lancaster Gate and Queensway.

I told colleagues about my decision to shift my birthday and bought them a box of mini chocolates to celebrate my coming of age. "No cards please."

They dived into the chocolates but not before I could salvage four little treats. Greedy bastards. (That's only a joke of course, in case one of them ever finds this...) Guys, I love you all and you all know that.

Idiots.

After my four treats I scoffed the chocolate mousse. And then went for a walk to the shop and wandered around the building and read a newspaper and went to the newsagent again and paged through some magazines and - I did fuck all.

This evening at the gym I did some cardio and abs to work off the chocolate.

So my Not Birthday has been a great day. But not as good as some poor fucker's on the Jubilee Line this evening.

He was quite drunk and kept falling asleep while standing up because there wasn't a seat. Every time he was about to drift off, his grip would loosen on the bars above and he'd fall forward and wake up.

If only I had a Ferrari I would have offered him a lift. He was fit. "Come to daddy, boy... hurr, hurr..." Actually, that's something I've never seen or been involved in.

I'm sure the Tube is hugely cruisey. I'm just so bad at it and don't usually notice anyone else. Let along anyone trying to make the moves. It must happen though. Especially when it's so packed.

Oh yeah, so I pulled out the suitcase to start packing and I found a Tesco bag pull of pens. New pens, unused pens, ball-points, ink pens, fountain and highlighters.

I dunno, I guess someday I might need a pen.

?!

Rev my V8

In less than a week I fly out to Cape Town for my 30th and I need to do some clothes shopping.

In this respect I am a pathetic gayer because clothes shopping bores me. Today is no different from the hundreds of times before.

I arrive on Oxford Street, one of the busiest and crowded shopping districts in the world.

Crowd is the operative word. Why do people reach the top of the escalator and stop? Why do people walk so slowly down the road?

Anyway, the operation is to start at Selfridges and shop my way to Oxford Circus.

Except the same thing happens every time. I walk into Selfridges, there are far too many women dressed in veils fighting over £10,000 handbags, so I leave.

I end up in the HMV buying CDs and DVDs. Every bloody time.

I get bored in HMV, mainly due to the price of everything - £25 ($50) for Season 2 of Family Guy! No wonder people are copying it onto the net and circulating it for free. Greedy Hollywood bastards.

So I leave there, stop by the M&S and then go home.

Damn. maybe next time I'll buy some clothes.

At some point along the way, I do end up in the Apple store where I carry out some advertising and shameless self-promotion.

I left it there and I don't think anyone saw it either...

Oh yeah, and on the way back to Bond Street tube station I spot this Ferrari. This is another indication of my ungayness.

First I reject clothes shopping and now I am lusting after cars.

This car is a 599GT Fiorano and it costs around £185,000.

Actually, I am not lusting after this Ferrari. I think it looks like a frog. I don't like it. If you were to point a gun at my head and force to to purchase a Ferrari it would have to be this one...

Of course we all know that this is not the Magnum PI Ferrari. That was a 308 GTS.

This baby, above, is the Ferrari 288 GTO. This Ferrari has a 4litre V8 (that's like saying it has an 11-inch cock) and when it goes fast it sounds like very scary motorbike. It is breathtaking.

Anyway, enough about cars. Although maybe I should start a blog about cars. "Weird gay dude, writes about fast cars", could really be a ratings winner? Maybe?

Back on the Central Line, you won't fucking believe who I run into. Look! It's Michael Jackson...

Oh yeah. And another thing - I am sick of waiting to turn 30 so I made a unilaterial decision about this, I think I made it while I was on the loo.

I have rescheduled my birthday. It is now happening on June 4th 2008 because in Britain the date will be 040608. This means the celebrations will now take place on Wednesday and not the following week, as previously noted.

Drop me a note and I'll let you have the address where you can drop off the Ferrari, all nicely wrapped with a full tank of petrol. Thanks.

Genesis

Everything I do now is based on the premise that, within a week, I will be 30. This means I don't care because after my birthday, I won't do it anymore.

I have been drunk since Thursday. At the moment I am 95% sober.

On Friday at work after lunch, I poured myself a glass of wine in a plastic cup, just a little pick-me-up. When I turn 30 I will condemn anyone who drinks to make work more interesting.

When I am 30 I will not stagger into McDonald's and assault as many cheeseburgers as the coins in my pocket will buy.

When I am 30 I will tidy up my bedroom.

There are empty glasses on every surface and where there aren't glasses there are dirty bowls with spoons in and bits of cereal lining the bottom.

An empty can of beer sits next to the Berocca.

I don't care. This place is a pigsty. When I am 30 it will be immaculate.

When I am 30 I will be beautiful and I will brush my teeth regularly. I can't remember the last time I did so.

As a 30-year-old, I will attend gym and I won't get bored and wander out after 25 minutes.

I am a mess. I am smelly and dirty and I don't care. When I go out I wear a newly-washed T-shirt and spray on masses of deodorant, to hide the smell that I haven't showered for two days.

This is like the last blow-out. The last chance to behave like a student, a layabout and a pig.

Now, I am 87% sober because while typing this - and buying music from iTunes - I have been sipping on a Stella in a can. The cold beer is perched and smiling at me from my bedside table.

Please don't think this is what I ordinarily do. I don't usually lie in bed on a Saturday night with the window open, knocking back beer and buying music online.

But I am 29 years and 350-odd days old. You will understand while I behave like this for one last time.

I thought I had rid myself of these urges. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

Oh yeah, and this is my new blog. I hope you like it.