Viva Democracy! Viva!

We need to inflict democracy, Bobby-Style.

London Preppy (never heard of him, don't know who he is...) has a poll on his website that is asking readers which blog they read. I am on that list.

I want you all to get your sorry asses over there and vote for er, who the fuck do you think? You don't need me to tell you.

Log onto multiple computers if you have to. If you can prove you voted for You Know Who, I'll send you a signed photo of my knob. (If that doesn't float your boat then I'll sign your knob for you - or ladies; your boob.)

Remember that democracy brought down the Berlin Wall, it liberated South Africa and crushed the Iron Curtain so get voting. But of course only if it's the correct vote.

And naturally, I have asked Comrade London Preppy to investigate who hasn't put the tick in the right box. Not that that should altar your decision or anything.

So, Kommissars and Politburo Members, now is the time for all the Communist regimes and members of the world to unite for the Common Goal! Vote in support of You Know What's Good For You.

Otherwise we come and ship you off to the fucking gulags. Now we wouldn't want that, would we?!

Signed (and voted),

Please note. I have used (bespoke) Soviet communist imagery blended with light-hearted gags about Siberian gulags to publicise my point.

Anyone who doesn't get the joke and who doesn't vote for me is devoid of a sense of history and/or a sense of humour. You watch, the sad morasse of people with no sense of fun and intelligence will vote for everyone else.

Next day edit
So, of course I got the most votes first so thank you to everyone who took the time to vote. I wanna thank my mom and dad and of course I wanna save all the starving children in Africa.

The poll, like all novelties, wears off and I've done what Ricky Gervais did with The Office - he quit when he was on top. Therefore, I have officially pulled out of the race.

But thanks again for 'avin a laff. And just so that you don't think I am a raging narcissist who's desperate to be most popular girl in school, here's how I voted:

Little wishes

Just a few people to think about as I lay my head down on my pillow to sleep...

To BA-boy: How the fuck are we supposed to start our relationship if you're not at the fucking gym. Sort it please.

To the guy in the gym who's quite clearly on steroids with the bad tattoo: You look like a doos*.

To the lad at the check-out in Sainsbury's: Head and shoulders will clear that. You should try it.

To the guy on the Central Line who was dressed like an idiot and got off at Notting Hill Gate: You looked more dog's breakfast than Snoop Dogg.

To you know who you are: Don't fucking try and take swipes at me. You'll come off second best, I promise you. ;-)

To someone else: I know you're going to duck out at the last minute in Brighton so I've made plans with other people.

To the lazy fuckers at work: Do some fucking work. I can see that you've been reading this blog! The stats tell me one of you was on it for 49-fucking minutes! Stop trying to flog it to the Daily Mail - they're not interested.

To another fucker at work in the big 1st floor room: I saw you checking me out, dude.

To one of the guys who helped me with the camera: It's 2008 - you can come out of the closet now. It's fine, nobody gives a shit.

To the driver who brought me home: You car smells of sweat and hanging those silly pine-tree thingys from the mirror isn't going to help a jot.

(Oh, here's a good one...) To the person on the sixth floor who had to clean the loos: I feel so fucking sorry for you. I walked in and in the first bowl saw that fucking floater and it stank so much that I left. I hope life brings you more than just scrubbing the porcelein.

Um, that's all I think.

Or, one for the road...

To Simon: Tomorrow I'm going to leave an M&S packet in your car, just to piss you off! x x x

*Doos = South African word. It's not that other people can't use it, it's just that anyone who isn't South African can't say it properly. Like voetsak, gwar and poes; if you know a South African ask them what these words mean...

I've enjoy sending out my little evening blessings. It's like putting little balls of light and thanks into the Universe and letting them float away forever.

Okay, fuck the existential crap. I'm may toss one off and then go to sleep.

Let's fly!

We've been here a thousand times before.

As I type the next sentence I know you're going to roll your eyes. Fair enough.

So, there's a guy in the gym who I want.

He's not really my type but there's something very attractive about him. I can't tell you what it is but I like him. And this is the thing...

I know he, well... When I first saw him I knew he was gay because er - it was gay pride and he was there, standing with a British Airways banner.

So here's the thing.

There are some of you who read this who work for the world's favourite airline - I guess this guy also works for the same airline.

This guess is because was wearing the smart blue uniform and had a badge on.

I have hauled out the photos from the day and I've found picture with him in.

From the above picture, if you zoom in closer to under the banner... Were you in that group? Who is this guy?

I don't where this leaves us, other than that I look like a weird stalker.

However, if you work with this guy, or know who he is, please tell me first so that we can work out a hunting plan. Let's fly!

Guns loaded

Life sucks when it ebbs and flows. One minute you're motivated and keen, the next you just can't give a fuck.

I'm currently in that "couldn't give a fucking shit" stage at the moment.

I had the day off so decided to go to the gym for a good session this afternoon.

I got changed and wandered around, did a pull-up and drank some water then ran for about 3 minutes. By now bored, I decided to shower and leave.

It didn't help that immediately after sloping out of the gym, I ran into someone with the most perfect arms ever, in the Waitrose next door...

Those are not just loaded guns - those are surface-to-air Katyusha rockets.

I thought of bribing him for a feel with one of the Muller yoghurts I had in my basket. I didn't see a girlfriend around so I wouldn't have upset some old ropey bird.

He had such a good body (from what I could tell) that I was little taken aback to find him in the bread section. Wheat, gluton, carbs etc.

Sometimes I look at very overweight people in the supermarket who're stacking their trolley and it always becomes obvious why they are the size they are. They will always have a ready-made cake in a box sitting on a sixpack of 2-litre diet Coke bottles.

Because if it says 'diet' it means that it makes you thinner. So that's why it's okay to drink twice as much.

Butt seriously

I bet that you, as I do, get this quite often; straight friends who ask about being gay.

"I dunno, I just always knew...", is what I always say.

You know, like I do, that it's something that's just in-built - a thing that you can't change. You're gay, you love Chaka Khan and sequins and that's it.

(For the record, can I say that it's emerged that Chaka Khan has been a recluse for a while and actually lives at the end of my road in West Hampstead? One day I am going to write a whole 10,000-word post on the Xanadu that is West Hampstead but anyway...)

Anyway, so straight people love to wonder why you're gay and what's so attractive about it.

Today, thanks to Dewsbury in West Yorkshire, I have the answer - that's where I've been all day.

I snapped this pictures because it cried out to me. I have always tried to find the words to explain why I fancied other men but to no avail. Outside the Subway in Dewsbury those words came to me in picture form.

So I say this; to all those straight boys who think that being gay is a cop-out, some sort of lame excuse - I ask you - which do you honestly fancy more?

Picture 1; taken on Thursday, 24 July 2008 outside the Game shop near Subway in Dewsbury?

Or...
Picture 2: taken sometime, somewhere in exactly the same style...



I have nothing more to say on this topic, thanks for reading.

Age cannot wither etc.

I'm going to have to get the main point of this very quickly because the backstory gets in the way of an ohmygod.

So remember I told you about Gareth?

To recap, he's a cocky 21-year-old who I had interactions with after we met at the gym. At the time I thought he lived with his wealthy parents who were away because we went back to his place in Marble Arch.

Well. That story's moved on a bit. A few weeks ago I saw him at the gym and we had that uncomfortable "we're strangers but we've shagged" chats. Anyway, it turns out that the house we went back was not his parents but his partners'!

Of course I laugh and joke that I wouldn't have gone back with him had I known. This is an attempt to show that I am a decent and moral bloke, even though, if he were to ask me again, I would happily have further interactions.

At the end of our conversation he says that sometimes him and his partner work out together so if I see him again with his other half, could I maybe be a little discreet. Interpret this as "when I'm with my boyfriend don't even fucking pretend to pretend that you know me cause nothing ever happened."

I'm fine with that. (Unless the boyfriend is double-hotness, then I'll just be a vicious bitter queen.)

Cut to tonight and there I am in the change-rooms, wrapped in a towel.

And lo! It's Gareth and the boyf, but I am shocked!

So Gareth notices me and looks the other way and I'm getting undressed to go and shower while he is getting dressed with his other half.

His other half is quicker than he is and is ready first. He tells Gareth "I'll see you outside in a bit."

The other half heads off and Gareth looks up at me, smiles and says "cheers, mate..."

I have to ask because I just have to. I have to!

"Mate, is that your partner?"

"Yeah, man...", he says knowing exactly what I'm about to ask. Which I do...

"Can I just ask - and you don't have to tell me and I know you're going to think I'm rude and I know I'm out of line but can I ask what the.. um..."

Gareth laughs; "haha, don't be silly, mate - he's 39 years older than me."



!!



I just went "oh right. Okay haha yeah... well, have a great evening. And maybe see you around or something what maybe okay" and with that he smiles and we part.

Gareth's partner was slightly hunched, had wispy silver hair, thin legs and knobly knees. Maths means he must be around 60 years old. Gareth is 21. But make no mistake - Gareth is a fittie. He is cocky, young with a sixpack and a great butt.

I haven't used this word ever on my blog ever but I am flabbergasted. What do you say to that!?

Who are we to judge? Who are we to cast Nasturtiums? But 39 fucking years older!?

Either he was lying and that was his dad. But dads and sons don't share gym tog-bags and even then, dads and sons are usually at the gym together at 9pm at night. And they didn't look alike.

And his "boyfriend" wasn't even hot - he was an old-looking 60 year old. Maybe's he a rent? But why would you ever pay £100 to take your rent boy to gym?!

D'ya know. Maybe they are in a loving relationship and Gareth is allowed to shag around because he has urges that young gay boys have. Still though, a 39-year age difference!

Flabbergasted. Like literally, jaw hang open on floor etc.

Mona Lisa

I've been at work all day as we're working on a pretty big project. I got home about an hour ago and was looking forward to getting into my bed to read for a bit. I did all my bits, grabbed my book and sunk into the sheets and lay there.

Through the window which is slightly open, a breeze has been wafting in and on it, the sound of the music from the woman next door.

I know that she's quite old and the landlord says that apparently she has been battling cancer which is why she's sometimes up at odd hours. Our house is semi-detached so her bedroom window is adjacent to mine.

I lie here typing this, to the sound of Nat King Cold singing Mona Lisa drifting in from next door. We've had Frank Sinatra, Cliff Richard and someone who sounds like Bing Crosby or Dean Martin. It's so easy and so peaceful to listen to.

I imagine she's sitting next to the stereo, listening to this music and remembering the days when she was young. When her and her boyfriend would go to the Saturday disco and dance at arms' length. She's probably now enjoying a G&T that's three parts gin and one part tonic.

Perhaps this morning she went out to the hairdressers, as she does every Saturday morning, to have her hair done. And she came home and ate her Saturday lunch all on her own. At four o'clock her son came to visit with her grandchild but they left a a few hours later.

And now she sits without saying a word, because she has no-one to talk to, with just her favourite music to keep her company. She assumes she's all alone but she doesn't realise that she's been keeping me company too.

To Mrs Whoever You Are, thank you for your wonderful music. It's been so lovely to listen to.

Pissed again

Although Anna is a colleague she is also a friend and a bloody great drinking partner.

So last night Anna and I decided to have a drink at the longest champagne bar in the world, at St Pancras International train station. We had just got off a train back from Fucking Luton.
Since Anna only lives about 500 metres from my house, after a bottle at the champagne bar we moved to a pub closer to home.

During the course of the evening we discussed straight men and their obsession with anal sex, which of our colleagues are probably crap in bed and we debated whether "cam sex" counts as cheating. Anna is a gay man in a women's body.

I have a vague tally of what I drank because I paid by card and can see from the receipts:
Half a bottle of champagne
Three gin and tonics
Three vodka and cranberry juices
A beer
A bottle of white wine.

I remember stumbling home but I don't remember going to bed. I woke up naked, splayed out and cold. I stumbled over to the alarm clock and decided to give myself an extra hour to sleep in.

Finally getting up, I crashed about and in about half an hour I was out the front door. At the corner shop I bought some Berry Lucozade.

Now on the Jubilee Line, the train just out of the station and there's a problem. I am flush, sweating and hot with bloodshot eyes while reeking of alcohol. I was the smell of a fart away from throwing up. I'm on a fucking train that is not moving.
It was at that moment that I realised that I was still very drunk.

At Bond Street tube station I got to the top of the escalator and just stood in the corner.

As humanity changed from one train to the other I was stood, pissed. Being shit-faced amongst freshly showered London commuters on a Friday morning at 8.30am is a very bizarre experience.

I got to work and had a bacon roll. And another one. And Red Bull. And my cheeks were flushed. And I stumbled around a bit and bought some chewing gum to hide my breath.

I'm never drinking on a school night ever again.

Do you know, people rabbit on about athletes' endurance, "ohmygod, he ran a marathon from one peak of Everest to the other" and "he cycled from Sao Paulo to Vancouver - isn't it incredible what the human body can achieve?!"

Hello! I drank nearly three litres of alcohol and had four hours' sleep between two 14-hour days. In the process I withstood the Jubilee and Central Lines, three Red Bulls and two bacon-butty sandwiches plus another few glasses of champagne at lunch on Friday.

I'd like to see others poncey goddam endurance athlete beat that.

If skank and crusty alcoholic weekday tendencies with boozy breathe and blood-shot eyes was an Olympic sport, I'd take gold every time. At least I'm good at something.

(Thank you dear body for putting up with what I put you through.)

Bobby on tour

When I first came to London in 2003, I used to love wandering around the city, especially in the summer when the place as its best. I woke up this morning with nothing to do so decided to go on one of my epic wanders, something I haven't done for years.

For this wander I decided my theme would be "rich fuckers" which would see me walk through some of the poshest and most expensive areas in London.

So I started by walking up the road which takes me into the heart of Hampstead, the most beautiful part of London. Starting in Hampstead is good because everywhere from there is downhill.

I wandered down towards St John's Wood through to Regent's Park until I ended up on Oxford Street. It took me about five hours and here's what I saw along the way...

Above is Fenton House in Hampstead. You know you've arrived when your garden has statues in it...

Here's a celebrity house I spotted along the way. When he was featured on MTV Cribs they showed this house, from the street it is quite impressive.

I'm not sure if he still lives there but that doesn't stop fans from pitching up nonetheless. I suspect the graffiti on the walls is routinely scrubbed off but some still remains and gives the game away.

Then, wandering towards St John's Wood can we please admire the very fine butt sticking out of this driveway...

Check out the tin in this one driveway in St John's Wood - two Range Rovers and a Bentley convertible.

Yes, I'm irritated. Some fucker's living in my house and is using my cars.

And that's an antique Rolls-Royce which is a little rich but not as rich as the following houses.

Walking along Regent's Canal I was stunned to find a row of, what must be, some of the grandest houses in London. I can't even begin to imagine what these houses would sell for but it's likely it's probably upwards of £15m each. At the very least.

From behind the trees you begin to get a clue...

And then fuck me. This house is a fucking iced cake. There are about six of them, all in a row.

Between the walkway and the houses is a moat which is obviously designed to keep the riff raff out. That's assuming that the peasants don't have wetsuits and can't swim.

And here's what one of them looks like from the front. What fucking self-important cnut puts raised bollards in front of his own house?

Besides, I think these houses are like the peacock of houses. Preening and too grand.

So I hope you've enjoyed this little tour of my city - yes, it's only a relatively quick one. For our next one maybe we'll wander through some of the roughest and scariest neighbourhoods in London.

Skank Pt I

1/ I went up to Birmingham yesterday
2/ On the train back we (me and three colleagues) drank far too much
3/ We decided to continue drinking in Shepherd's Bush
4/ I walked back to work at around 1am (?) to get a cab home
5/ I suddenly woke up, slouched over my desk at 4am
6/ I found a couch to go and sleep on
7/ It is now 7am and time for work

Help.

Out out brief candle

Things to do before I die, 30th year update
If we have nothing to strive for in life then there's no point to it and we might as well be dead.

For a time I have a bank account with a balance of £1,000,000
For a time I will be completely debt-free and not owe anyone a single penny

I will own a Rolls-Royce
I will own a Ferrari
I will own an Aston Martin

I will have a house with a jacuzzi and plush-pile carpeting
I will own a holiday home along the Atlantic seaboard in Cape Town

At least once I will fly First Class on a long-haul flight
At least once I will travel in a private jet
I will shake hands with the Prime Minister and the American President
I will take part in a protest

I will travel to the top of the Eiffel Tower
I will walk across the Golden Gate Bridge
I will stay at the Burj al Arab in Dubai
I will gamble in Las Vegas
I will visit the Pyramids in Giza
I will visit the Taj Mahal
I will see the Northern Lights
I will attend an Olympic Games
I will run naked on a beach
I will make a pilgrimage

I will spontaneously recite Shakespeare
I will finish a crossword
I will write a screenplay and have it filmed
I will write a book and have it published
I will win a major award

I will employ someone
I will hold a Tarantula in my hands
I will own a cat
I will own a dog
I will have a garden that is my own

I will have a body I am proud and confident of
I will share my life with someone who I love unconditionally
I will serenade someone I love
I will experience total happiness, freedom and joy

I will leave the world with no regrets.

Things I have already completed
I will throw money in the Trevi Fountain
I will dance til dawn in a club in Ibiza
I will travel to the top of the World Trade Centre
I will go on an African safari

I will meet a porn star
I will neck a £200 bottle of Cristal Champagne
I will eat a meal good enough to be my last

I will win money

I will _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ off a breakfast tray in bed (whoops!)
I will have great sex

I will work in an office
I will chuck a sickie
I will max out a credit card
I will have someone ask for my autograph

I will receive a Valentine's card
I will tell someone I love them
I will give to those less fortunate
I will make an enemy for life

I will enjoy at least one New Year's Eve party

The one thing I cannot change
I will cross the Atlantic on Concorde

Most importantly...
I will leave one of my goals unfinished and it will pass onto someone who took the chance I never did.
One day I will give someone the experience I never had.

Gym scouts Pt 1

At London Pride on Saturday I was handed a flyer that offered me a free guest pass to any Fatness First gym.

Do they hand these to people who they think need them or do they give them out to those who look like they already go to gym and are trying to get them to change to Fitness First? I don't know the answer but I accepted the flyer.

Yesterday I spent the day researching which gym I was going to attend.
1/ It needed to be in Central London, preferably along the Jubilee or Central Lines.
2/ It had to be open when I wanted to go (i.e. it can't close at 8pm)
3/ That's it.

Today I decided to take up the club's offer and went along to the Fatness First on Kingly Street.

So you walk down a few stairs, through a door and hey presto! You're in. No literally - the gym is so small there are people doing press-ups behind the reception desk. It is about the size of a shoebox and divided into two areas.

First, the area where people sweat all over each other and secondly the area where everyone bashes into you with their weights.

Above is the sweaty area where

Holy fuck.

Having changed, I'm about to get on the treadmill and I spot someone. Oh god. It's someone I've interacted with. But not just that. He used to go to the gym I currently go to. The gym I am in now is small enough without having the fucking walls close in even more.

We speak. He's very pumped and still very interactable. I get a semi. This is bad.

Fuck, so I try and run and then pow! Do you know the pictures I took at London Pride? You'll find them here...yeah? Second from the bottom, in the blue T-shirt (Graham please note...)

Yep, he's there too wearing grey tracksuit pants and a pink and white polo shirt. He's equally interactable, especially because he pulls funny faces when lifting heavy weights in the bashing section of the gym...

I do ten minutes of cardio while amused by one of the TV channels called Fitness First News?! On this channel there are music videos and endless plugs about the advantages of joining Fitness First. "Preaching" and "converted" are words that spring to mind.

Statistically I think this gym is 75% male and of those 75%, I reckon half of them are gay. There were a lot of tanorexics in tank tops.

One of the personal trainers was very definitely gay because, while doing arms, I kept getting offered a lot of advice and a smile. He was at the front desk when I came in and figured maybe I needed some subtle convincing to get me to join.

Or at least I think he was gay, he may have just been a very good salesperson. He was just always stood a little too close behind me. I got at least one brief touch - the front of his trousers connected with the area in the middle of my bum. Fuck - another semi.

After about 30 minutes of triceps of trying to hide this and act normally doing biceps and triceps, I decide to pack it in. I've seen it all and the guy who I had an interaction with also keeps coming up and trying to chat.

I race into the showers and get changed.

On the way out Interaction Guy sees me and says that maybe we should swap numbers incase I was interested in "meeting up again maybe or something." I smile and we exchange digits.

I leave and don't see Personal Trainer on the way out. Maybe he's gone to find another punter on a guest pass who needs convincing.

Of course on the way out I grab another pamphlet offering me a free trial. Another week, a different gym perhaps?

London Pride 2008

Here are various pictures from the London Pride parade. We were standing outside the O2 shop on Oxford Street near the entrance to St Christopher's Place.


This one's for Adrian...

There have to be other people who someone recognises. Anyone?

































I thought this firefighter was quite cute. And cue 10,000 jokes about long hose, dousing with water, hot etc.



This woman's muffin was near-perfect...









South Africa comes to London Pride...

Big weekend

I am still a bit fucked actually.

Now, go to iTunes and download Cream vs The Hoxtons - Sunshine Of Your Love (Radio Edit). Before you play it, imagine being in the middle of 50,000 people in Hyde Park. Something like this...

On stage is Fat Boy Slim who's mixing up a fucking storm...

And I don't use the word fuck lightly...

Now play that song I told you to download. Yes, I was in fucking heaven. We were dancing, drinking and it was fucking awesome.

The first rule you should know is that boys at music festivals are much hotter than those at gay pride.



I whinge about my job except when it gets me into the VIP area.

There are comfortable chairs for lazy people to sit in. And the bar is free which is why I order about 20 mojito royales.

Then we head to the field to watch Fat Boy Slim who is playing that fuck-off Hoxtons song.

At some point I was drunk enough to enjoy a goddam Dunhill cigarette which is like smoking old boots.

That's Katie. She's ma bitch. Yes, that's right. Corrupt the kids! I think the song "Fat Boy Slim is fucking in heaven" was playing...

I wanna see this dude in 20 years time. Legend. This, however, is not something I wanna see. Bad tan, bad tattoo (and a bit gay).

And this picture segues nicely into gay pride, which is where I was earlier in the day. While there, I met this guy...

Another legend! He detected South African in my accent and told me about the first time he attended Pride in Johannesburg. This man deserves all the respect he gets, he was so friendly and unbelievably normal. Absolute class.

The most surreal moment at Pride was when this bloke tried to hand me a flyer extolling the virtues of Manhunt. I never know if they hand them out to the people who they think need it the most, so I politely declined his offer.

Even though I was so tempted to say something, I didn't. Funny ol' things, these blogs.

By the end of a very long day I was suitably under the influence and generally happy. Which is why I have this need to drape myself over £120,000 sports cars, particularly Aston Martins.

Okay, so when I said there were no hot guys at Pride, maybe I was being a little unfair. You like?