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.