Monday, 28 December 2009

22:19
When I listen to The Pointer Sisters singing "Neutron Dance" I have this urge to flap my arms.

Anyway...

So listen - God, does it feel like the end of the year to you? Everything's coming to an end. It's the end of a decade for God's sake.

I have started to collect some of my favourite images over the last few months and what kind of fool would I be, were I not to share them with you...

So this is the first one of the BT Tower in Central London.

I think the kind of space-shippy structure against the clear blue sky.

And then there's this image of 1970s Soviet Russia...

Well actually not. It's West London at dusk.

Don't you think the cold-looking air and reddish hue give it a feeling of suppressed communist living? I think so - it's the tower blocks...

Then this picture which I absolutely fucking love. Everything just seemed to come together at exactly the right time, although it makes me look fat...

The colours are like beige and black and, I think it's a little cool...

23:23
God. So that's it for 2009 in London.

Tomorrow I fly to Cape Town for New Year but more importantly, for a holiday.

Therefore, this is the last post from London for this decade.

Whenever I hear people talk of the end of the decade, I immediately want to start singing "reached the end of a decade... in another ten years' time... Who can say - what we'll find...what life's waiting down the line... In the end of - '89....."

Weird. Weird how I remember first listening to that song as a kid and thinking about the end of 1989, which hadn't yet come. That was about 20 years ago.

That's the problem with pop culture being bombarded at you constantly.

I bet you can't recite three lines of a classic poem but could recite and source these lines...

"Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone. I hear you call my name and it feels like home."

"He came into your apartment, he left bloodstains on the carpet. Then you ran into the bedroom, you were struck down. It was your doom."

"As I look back upon my life, it's always with a sense of shame. I've always been the one to blame..."

"Some of them want to use you, some of them want to get used by you..."

"Hello. Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can here me..."

And even then there are too many words...

"Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?"
"Love... soft as an easy chair..."
"And now, the end is near..."

Or what about just three words.

"Lights! Models! Guestlist!"

23:54
So all of this leads to: Bobby's No. 1 song for 2009.

There have been some very strong contenders for this year...

Lady GaGa - Bad Romance
Mari1yn Man5on - Arma-goddam-mother-fucken-gedden (Teddy Bears remix)
Muse - United States of Eurasia
Pet Shop Boys - Love Etc.
Die Antwoord - Doosdronk
Fake Blood - Fix Your Accent
Prodigy - Invaders Must Die (Chase & Status remix)

However, the song that will come to forever be associated with 2009 stands head and shoulders above everything else.

I first heard it around March 2009 and instantly fell in love with it.

I knew I was going to have my birthday in Cape Town in early June and so I begged a DJ friend of mine, who spins at Cape Town's most fabulous gay club, if he would play the record for me when I was there.
I turned London upside down looking for a good quality bootleg copy and, as far as I can tell, the tune made its Cape Town debut thanks to me.

Back in London for the start of summer we went to the song's album launch in Heaven.

We danced to it at London pride. We danced to it at Brighton Pride. We roared with delight when Dizzy Rascal sampled bits of it at Wireless.

We beamed from ear to ear when they played it at XXL. And one of the remixes they played at Beyond.

When I was back in Cape Town in September I went back to the homo club and Charl played a remix version of the song when he saw me. (The Alex Sax and Evan Sax mix)

It is a song that, when I listen back to it in 20 years' time, will remind me of everything that's happened in 2009.

I've tried to hold myself together
Tried to forget you, gone away...
The tears I've cried
They won't subside.
Unless the music starts to play...
So come along now boys; and sing it loud and sing it proud...

Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer...
DJ give me the answer
Love stop getting me down, down, down...!

What an absolutely worthy winner of the title of The Song of 2009...


(Oh yeah, and if you're doing isotonic training and working your biceps and want to hold something for a minute, the time from the bridge to the end of the build-up after the second chorus is exaclty one minute...)

23:58
So will you excuse me while I go and finish the rest of my packing. See you in Cape Town.

2010 reckons, boys...

Wednesday, 23 December 2009

There are a few oddities in our house...

(How much would it bother you, were this to become some sort of weird photoblog? That's what it appears to be turning into...)

So anyway, in our house there some rooms where all reality seems to have been excluded. For example...

In the lounge there's a mirror that doesn't reflect.

And then in our kitchen, the microwave has a setting for "zero gravity".

If you're not expecting it, it can be a little disconcerting...

But enough of the house of comedy.

Have a look at these...

First is a VW that was parked in the road outside. I reckon, if you were to put a car into the deep freeze, this is how it would turn out after a few hours.

Yeah, it's been cold over the last few days.

And this is what -7C looks like...

How do you feel about that?

Cold should be your answer...!

Saturday, 19 December 2009

I am thinking of starting something called a blog. What you ever heard of something so ridiculous?

You're supposed to post stuff everyday. Don't make me laugh.

The name of this blog would be called "Teabreak On The Thunderbirds Set." That's because, when everyone takes tea on The Thunderbirds set, all the marionettes go limp and collapse...










I can't believe that people indulge in these silly blog things. They're for sissies...

Wednesday, 16 December 2009

22:51
I went and bought a new camera yesterday which I am loving. Although Sally isn't.

She says it's like living with the fucking paparazzi because there are even flashes coming from the bathroom. Ahem.

So anyway, to practice with this new device, I though I would share some pictures with you. This could be filed under the tab "most boring post in the world ever" but thank you for indulging me. Innit.

What I am going to show you, in a series of photographs is how to make my lunch.

First you're going to need square medium-sized Tupperware boxes.

Then, get a cucumber and chop it into little slices using a knife. Obviously.

You'll also need three tins of tuna. I used what must be the best invention ever and that is drained tuna. It means you simply peal open the tin and it's ready to eat.

No silly tin openers, no draining the bloody stuff...

Use a fork and dig the tuna out of tin but not too hard, otherwise you risk flicking the tuna halfway across the kitchen.

And now sort of poke your fork around the tuna and cucumber pretending to be all cookery-like...

Next, open a bag of Sainsbury's ready-prepared salad - the one with beetroot in it. I think it's around £1,19 a bag.

Then, as a little treat, drain some smoked mussels. Totally fucking healthy food fuck-fest...

Finally, once you've added the whole lot together, it looks quite yummy.

And store in the fridge for you to take to work and eat the next day.

And that's the story of my lunch for tomorrow.

Thank you for reading. Seriously. Thank you.

(Er... is anyone still awake or have you fallen asleep on your hands...?)

Those nine pictures in a few words each:
1/ Badly framed
2/ Wrong bits of the cucumber are in focus
3/ Okayish
4/ Tuna's too pink
5/ Dull
6/ Odd light from above
7/ Looks like everything's about slide off to the right of the picture
8/ Flat
9/ Stock (dull)

Tuesday, 08 December 2009

22:41
So I'm leaving the gym and it's been a good work-out. Pumping dem guns baby...

And I'm walking to the Tube station when this guy stops me. He's young but is dishevelled and a bit smelly.

He asks for money because he has forgotten his wallet at home. I have heard that excuse to beg before. And I have also heard the guy's accent before. He is South African.

I ask where he's from and he tells me he's from Durban. I ask him if he's okay and I ask him why he has no cash.

He came to London to earn some money but because of the way the economy's gone he has lost his job and is sometimes forced to beg. The benefits aren't enough to survive.

He has no friends because he's either abandoned them as he's too ashamed of his situation or they've returned to South Africa.

He's now living in a homeless hostel in Holborn. He comes to Swiss Cottage by bus to visit his girlfriend. "She's staying in a house around the corner."

She's not from South Africa but Eastern Europe. He says she's earning some money from time to time.

As far as his mum's concerned, her son is happily living in London. She doesn't know that he's actually homeless, alone and begging...

He doesn't speak to his dad - who probably wouldn't care anyway. And that's where this begins...


There is a plugin-thingy of an MP3 file on this page that may require a Quicktime download to play. It should work if you can see the play button. If you can't hear it, please let me know.

Whenever I see people begging I always think that it's a mother's child even though I never give.

It's even worse when you can picture their mum thinking that, although her son is 10,000 miles away, he is hopefully safe, healthy and warm.

Just like I know my mum hopes that I am.

Monday, 07 December 2009

00:08
I'm slightly too embarrassed to even show my face.

That's all I can manage to say at this point. Yes, embarrassed.

It's official: I am crap.

Wednesday, 25 November 2009

23:48
When my dad used to say that he never had enough hours in the day I always used to think that he said it because he really was too busy and that the day wasn't long enough.

And then someone said that people who say that they never have enough hours in the day use it as an excuse because they're disorganised. And that idea stuck because for a few years my dad wasn't my favourite person in the world.

But it's true because I now realise that he wasn't disorganised. There are simply not enough hours in the day.

In the mornings I get onto the Tube and my hair is still a little wet from the gym because I've rushed.

And I am usually out of breath because I've ran for the train and I jump on just as the doors are closing. But all of this counts for nothing because I am still late getting into the office.

And then I work flat out but I have to do a menial task like buy stamps but it's too complicated so I don't bother doing it and that fucking envelope has been dicking about in my bag for around four days.

All it needs is a fucking stamp so that I can post it. Maybe it's just a London thing?

Maybe it's only in London that the queues in the Sainsbury's, where I buy my tuna in tins, at around 10pm is like 15 people deep.

And there's a wait everywhere. People, queues, pushing.

I get home and I make my food for the morning and I can't find a Tupperware box and that takes five minutes and then I realise that I'm not going to be in bed by 11pm because I want to be up early and fuck.

And then I can't find the remote for the Mac so I can't plug it in to listen to music and then I find the remote and I'm still thinking, what the fuck ever happened to that letter I was supposed to post?

Oh, it's in my bag without a stamp.

London. Fuck this place is for fucking idiots. But I am not having a London-hate day.

I have those every day but it's like that quote from er... it goes something like (and I've replaced London for democracy)... London is shit and it isn't perfect but it's the best that there is.

I'm having one of those days where .. oh god, I'm not going to bore you but doesn't it sometimes seem like everyone else's life sails on in calm serenity but yours kinda bashes to and fro?

Fuck.

My eyelids are heavy I can't keep them open.

Do you mind if I carry on with this in the morning.

And by the way. There's a new personal trainer at the gym. He is hot off the scale.

Liam and I are sure we know him from somewhere - Chris says he's straight.

Liam (not me) is sure he's seen him from where somewhere - in Liam's words; "like on one of those websites where straight men get their knobs sucked off by homos for money."

There is something familiar about him. Cocky, muscular, tattooed, cute, very friendly, built like a boy from the continent who dances in gold hotpants on a podium in Fire. Er...

The story, my pretties, continues shortly...

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

20:45
I think we should have Cultural Tuesday. This is an occasion where we are able to share and promote different videos and music and shit.

We're so fucking highbrow we make the fucking LRB look tabloid.

Firstly what do you get when you mix an over-pumped porn star with a budget set?

Er - if there's anyone who can explain what the fucking is happening here, I'd be interested to here.

Click on the picture to go to the video
And watch carefully because afterwards there could a test...



Question One
A post-modern tale of pop art genius. Discuss.

Question Two
How many pull-ups do we see Mr Loverman doing and can you beat his record?

Question Three
At around 2'16 we see Mr Lover in the company boardroom. Is this actually just the dining room from the previous scene with the pie dish replaced with a pie chart?

Question Five
Why is there a semi-naked picture of Mr Lover on the pie chart in the scene mentioned above?

Question Eight
Fuck the test.

Question Nine
Talk amongst yourselves for a bit.

20:47
Remember.

Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets.

21:06
I have a found a band that are going to be as big as The Rolling Stones.

Except not really that big.
There's another problem too and that's that they're South African and they sing in Afrikaans.

But I feel I would like to share this band with you. I mean, we all listen to Edith Piaf and she sings in French.

The band is called Die Antwoord which is Afrikaans for The Answer.

In this picture we see the three members of the band and those three members are, from left; Yo-landi Visser (pronounced Fisser), Jack Parow (Parow is a bit of cruddy suburb in Cape Town) and DJ Hi-Tek.

The song I would like to use by way of an introduction to Die Antwoord is Doosdronk.

Now, from here on in there is going to be some extremely descriptive language so you might want to put the kids to bed....

Doos is a slang word for vagina, in the strongest possible sense and dronk means drunk. So doosdrunk basically means cunted. Ahem.

You can listen to their tune here and to help you along I have prepared a rip-and-read translated version of the lyrics.

Okay, it's not quite "On A Clear Day You Can See Forever" but it's a close 9th.

::Song start::

Jack Parow? Daar's die man nou!
Jack Parow? There he is now...

Party, party, party, party...!

Hoes ya. Here maar ek's in my poes in.
Woo man. God, I'm cunted

Dude maar hy's fokken wasted.
Hello hoe lyk dit, ek en jy naked?
Dude, he's fucking wasted
Hello how do we look, you and me naked?

Fok jou, kom ons gaan lekker 'n dop hou
Kom by [can't work out] die Witblitz
Sit terug, vat 'n fokken sluip van die Klipdrift.
Fuck that, come and lets have a drink. [Something about witblitz - a very potent home-made alcohol] and then have a swig of Klipdrift [a brand of shitty brandy, favoured by vagrants and poor alcoholics]
Ah shut up you fokken bastard
Don't fuck around with the drunk [...?]

Kyk hier jou ma se porno
Don't want gehelp van my kopseer
Look at your mother's porno
And I don't want help with my headache

Kyk jy na my, ek is in ripper!
Ons party nou hos, nou lekker!
Something about 'let's party'...

Laa-dee, daa-dee
Party, party, party, party!

Chorus
Doosdronk,
Stop [val?] op my hond
Poes jou in the mond
En val op die grond
Cun-ted!
Stop falling on my dog*
(Untranslatable filth)
And fall on the ground

* = the references to the dog relate to it being a sort of an anthem of homeless alcoholics who enjoy getting drunk, spouting vile language and domestic violence.

Doosdronk,
God, waar is my hond?
Le in my kotz en
Vrot in die tronk
Cun-ted!
God, where is my dog?
Lie in my puke
And rot in jail

Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...
Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...

Waar's die papsak?
Jissie ons is heeltemal fucked up
Where's the papsak*?
Bloody hell but we're totally fucked up

* = papsak is a South African word for the silver foil bladder in boxed wine. As far as I'm aware they're actually banned in the country now because having wine available in such vast quantities apparently contributes and encourages crime and social degradation.

Score die vokken [?] vrou en dope
Kom ons gooi 'n bietjie [driete?]
I don't understand this bit but it related to having women and spliffs

Kyk na my piel doen so 'n beweging
Look at this...
Look at my cock and watch it swinging
Look at this...

Ek soek 'n piss.
Gaan piss in die hoek
Oh fok, ek dink ek gepiss in my broek
I need a piss
Go and piss in the corner
Oh fuck, I think I've just pissed myself

Gee vir my fok 'n [?] shooter
Los it!
Don't be a party pooper
Blas die hooter...
Give me a fucking shooter
Leave it!
Don't be a party pooper
Sound the horn...

Ons se nou baie drankie vir die drankie!
Wat sal ons doen sonder 'n drankie
Bokkies, boerekos en rugby?
We say thank you for the booze
What would we do without alcohol
Women, barbeques and rugby?

Don't worry be happy happy.
happy, happy, happy, happy...

Repeat the chorus.

Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...
Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...

Little comedy section of domestic violence...

Waar's die sleutels? Fok it...
Ek weet nie, look in your pocket
Where are the keys? Fuck itt
I don't know, look in your pocket

Fok jou!
God vrou ek poes now weg van jou...
Fuck you!
God, I will smack you in the cunt...

Fok jou! Hond... Vuil fokken hond!
Wie's jy? Niks! Jy's niks...
Fuck you... You dirty fucking dog!
What are you? Nothing! You're nothing...

22:11
Um.

Has anyone got this far?! Did you enjoy the song? Are you hooked? On the music, not the booze...

I think that brings us to the end of our cultural evening. Did you have fun?

If you have anything you'd like to bring to the table so that we can have a look at it next Tuesday, bring. it. on.

Um.

Tomorrow it's Normal Wednesday where a normal services resumes.

22:18
And what the fuck is that about Lola?

This song absolutely rocks.

Thursday, 18 November 2009

Remember that email I sent to my bank?

Their response is below.

Given that I said to them that I expect nothing more than for them to simply point to their terms and conditions like a hairy sex-starved matron, they have done me proud.

I win this argument purely because they're just so fucking boring.

I managed to read the first two paragraphs but then screamed in pain. Anyone bothered to read to the end?

18/Nov/2009 09:22

To: Mr R Cox

Thank you for your electronic message dated 14 November 2009.

I'm sorry for the upset caused by the management of your account, particularly the fee recently incurred. In the circumstances, I would like to take this opportunity to clarify our position.

With effect from 1 October 2007, our overdraft service changed. These changes were introduced to enable us to provide a service that offers choice and flexibility for our customers, whilst ensuring that we continue to lend responsibly.

As such, you can now request an overdraft in the following ways:

* Formal overdrafts may be requested in advance and will be agreed and authorised (subject to status) for up to 12 months.
* Informal overdrafts may be requested by presenting a debit for payment such as an ATM withdrawal, cheque, direct debit or standing order, when there is not enough money in your account. These requests will be authorised (subject to status) for 31 days. If another informal request is received within the same period, this will be treated as a new request.

In both instances, if the informal or formal request is agreed, a GBP25 arrangement fee may be applicable and is non-refundable, irrespective of the amount of the request in question, or the length of time required.

In your case, an informal request for an overdraft increase was received on 14 October when the balance of your account reached GBP505.89 debit and a fee was therefore incurred in line with our published Rate and Tariff. Whilst I understand your frustration, it remains your responsibility to monitor and manage your accounts and you should ensure that sufficient funds are available prior to items being presented for payment. As no bank error has occurred, I am unable to offer a refund.

Please be assured that the fee was not an attempt to recoup part of the joining incentive you were given. Our Rate and Tariff is applicable across the whole of our customer base and without prejudice.

Turning to your comments with regards to the conversations you had with us on 10 October and 14 October. Our records show that on 15 October we advised you that we had listened to the calls and we explained that the system was live and the fee would stand.

At first direct we are passionate about providing all of our customers with exceptional service so we're fully committed to providing prompt and accurate resolution to any complaints. If you are not completely satisfied with our response, please tell us at any time within the next eight weeks. To do so, you can telephone us on 08 456 100 100, send an electronic message via firstdirect.com, or write to Customer Relations at 40 Wakefield Road, Leeds, LS98 1FD. Otherwise, we'll consider this matter closed.

If we can't offer you a satisfactory resolution, you can refer to the Financial Ombudsman Service (but we really do hope it doesn't come to that). Further details about how to do so and about how we respond to complaints are contained on our website, www.firstdirect.com/howtocomplain.

Thank you for taking the time to write to us.

Steve Smithard
Credit Services Customer Relations

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

22:21
I seriously do not know where the bloody time goes. It's like there's a time black hole.

But.

You're never going to guess this but. It's like everything is coming full circle.

22:25
Ohmygod. I have started to make resolutions for 2010. Is that a bit silly? I have a feeling that 2010 is going to be an amazing year. I find that odd years are always a little shit and even years are always good.

Odd years are ones I sit around on my arse a little, even years are ones where I get ahead. It's weird like that. Ohmygod. Where has the time gone?

Like who can remember anything about 2007?! And what was 2008 all about?! It's like they have all just merged into one. And also, doesn't it feel like 2008 was like a redux version of 2007.

And 2009 has been like the director's cut of both years combined. Anyway.

So I have started to make resolutions for 2010. Like WTF.

I sound like some airhead Beverly Hills bitch.

22:35
Ohmygod. So we were mentioning about everything coming full circle which is funny really because it wasn't something that happened on the Circle Line, it was on the Jubilee Line.

Who can remember the hottest guy in the world?

Come on, don't be coy. This is him here. And so is this.

You're never going to guess who I spotted on the Jubilee Line?! Never.

Okay go on - have a guess! Look...

I nearly choked on the water I was sipping when I saw him.

How funny. And did I walk up to him and say "hello, we think your hotness is off the scale?" No.

22:47
I'm digging around on the iPhone to see if there are any other photos I haven't shared with you.

Oh here's one...

Except he's much hotter without his shirt on.

Would you?



22:57
Ohmygod and this photo. I took this last week and forgot to share it with you.

How goddam 2007 is this?

I reckon they'll be tucking into The Da Vinci Code next. Are there seriously still people reading that book!?

23:07
I reckon we need to start "Grindr Hottie Of The Day"...

(Honestly - has anyone actually met anyone off Grindr? It strikes me as a great tool for teasing but actually meeting someone!? Nope...)

Anyway.

Who rates this guy? It's todays "Grindr Hottie Of The Day".



23:19
I think that's enough for the evening. Don't you? And besides. My herbal tea's gone cold.

Friday, 13 November 09

23:57
Right. Do you think this is a little strong?

I am writing to place on record my disgust at being charged £25 for going overdrawn, as I did, for a few hours on 14/10/09 by less than £6

The charges are due to debit from my account shortly.

I was assured by you at the time that, all pending transactions considered, my account would remain in credit. This turned out not to the case despite your repeat assurances.

I asked on three separate occasions to listen to the phonecall between myself and firstdirect - which would prove that I was given incorrect advice - and on each occasion I was told that this wasn't going to be possible.

In effect firstdirect played judge and jury in deciding to charge me.

Annoyingly, I did as you were expecting and gave up the fight. I imagine somewhere at firstdirect HQ, a staffer was rubbing their spindly fingers Mr Burns-style and declaring "ha ha Smithers, in the end we got him!"

Admittedly, I am not entirely bothered because I was credited with £100 for joining firstdirect when I did. Effectively this £25 isn't a change, it's just a way for you to gleefully claw back some of the money you initially gave me.

I'm sure it all ends up in the bonus pot to be given to someone who'll use it to buy tacky champagne to spray around a West Club club at bonus time.

I don't expect any sort of response, other than for you to smugly hold up your guide to the terms and conditions, like a school teacher with a hairy chin in a pressed skirt, and declare "well Mr Cox, we did tell you..."

However, I did want it placed on record that I object to the charge - £25 for going overdrawn by less than £6 for a few hours is the kind of business practice that would make lawyer with a baseball bat in a bad suit blush.

That said, I am a journalist by training and it's heartwarming to know that, as much as we and bad-suited lawyers are disliked, we are never going to be loathed to the extent that UK bank workers are now. Every cloud, silver lining etc. No offence intended...

Finally, having sent this at 11.16pm, the bolshy language and outlandish metaphors might suggest that I have enjoyed a fairly liquid Friday evening out, the truth is I am very much sober and am actually working a nightshift.

I couldn't let it pass without mention that I think the charge is unfair, wrong, outrageous but more importantly, completely contrary to what good business should be about.
Then again, if you were about good practice and being fair to customers, you would have gone out of business ages ago.

Sharing my thoughts has brightened my night. You're welcome to use this as a dartboard / loo paper etc.

It better be okay because I just sent it. Do you think they will tell me to fuck off?

Thursday, 12 November 2009

23:16
Ohmygod. Where did the last six days go? What the hell...?! Did anybody see that?

No, I haven't been killed in World War 3. Although I have to admit that the fighting as all but ceased, simply because Liam and I haven't seen Beckham* around.

* = not really David Beckham but a dickhead in the gym who calls himself Beckham which is strangely ironic because although people find the Beckham attractive (pass the sick bag), this guy who calls himself Beckham is a pig. (Is that a little strong? No...)

I mean, how the hell are you supposed to fight a war if the enemy won't pitch. What the fuck!?

Maybe we need to remind him that there's a fucking conflict that he's in the midst of. Maybe we could send someone down to The Club Where Beckham Works and bash him about the knees with a baseball bat.

Anyway.

23:22
I have had the drawing board out (thanks for asking) and have been planning something.

Do you remember earlier in the year I tried to do something which was, in theory, pretty simple? In fact it was so simple that half way through the year I had to give it up...

The idea is that every day for a year you take a photo of yourself. That's it.

But not like a silly passport photo - you know, put some fucking effort into the bloody thing.

Well this year I decided to do it on January 1st which felt a bit like being kicked forward and not being able to stop to catch your footing.

Sometime around May I stumbled.

The abandoned 365 Project is <--- there if you want to have a look...

I'm just going back over it now and if I may say so... do you know, some of those pictures are actually fucking good. e.g. March 29th, March 18th etc.

I am planning to try and do it again on January 1, 2010. Is there anyone else onboard?

So I'm trying out looks to make sure that I don't run out of ideas and give it up. Hence I dived into the make-up box earlier...

It is supposed to be a fucking freakshow - start big and then refine.





Can I say...

1/ I had no fucking talcum power to set the white liquid base hence it's gone a little pink.
2/ I had no black liquid liner so the bottom eyelids are a little shite.
3/ Do you know how bloody difficult it is to work with black and whites and then stop them from smudging?!

And of course props to the Lady GaGa lips.

Yes, the idea is that it makes you feel a little unsettled. Maybe funny dreams perhaps.

While you lie awake in a cold sweat, I'll be at the drawing board.

Thursday, 05 November 2009

19:26
So we're at gym and the first salvos of World War 3 have been launched.

(Incase you've been living under a rock since it's the thing that everyone is talking about, basically we have had to declare a third global conflict at our gym. You can read about it here.)

Like so many before us, this conflict was not started at a time of our choosing and we were dragged into it unprovoked but it will end once we have prevailed.

And our important Three Point Plan For War™ has been instigated, specifically points 1, 4 and 9.

Point one was for Brent - the reception manager - to get the details of ... er, hold on.

Firstly we need to clarify the name of the enemy because we can't keep referring to him as the fugly thug who wears hideous gold shoes.

So, for the task of clarification we have enlisted the help of Christopher* who will lead the intelligence cavalry.

* = our personal trainer, do pay attention at the back please.

"Christopher, what do you know of that fucking tosspot over there with the ridiculously silly gold shoes?"
"Who, Beckham...?"
"I beg your pardon?"

Yes. This guy calls himself Beckham. What a complete and utter - I mean, doesn't it just so fit? He thinks he's David Beckham.

And can I stress again... this guy is your typical thuggish oaf from Eastern Europe with a hairy neck and the prejudices of Idi Amin.

And to think that he calls himself Beckham. It just shows that he is about as deluded as the former president of Uganda and sometime King of Scotland. (Get us and our history...)

What Christopher is also able to tell us is that Beckham works - and I am being serious. He really does call himself Beckham and it is true that he works as a bouncer at a trashy and wannabe club in the West End.

So I have Googled "[name of club]" and "bouncer" and the following phrases pop up:

"door staff and bouncers were all ASSHOLES"
"The bouncers outside seem to all be on some sort of power trip"
"horrible old fashioned sexist bouncers"...

And so the results continue ad nauseam for 28,000 times...

So I think that on point one, we are clearly ahead. The propaganda victory is ours. Clearly everyone in the capital also hates Beckham.

(Ohmygod, every time I say his ridiculous name, I get a little snot in my nose from a mini-laugh.)

So the next point - is this point 2? Anyway, it's PSYOPS, one of the most important aspects of conflict.

Wikipedia drones on endlessly about psychological operations in war - and you may know what they are but if you don't, PSYOPS basically involves fucking with the enemy's mind.

We have the tactics.

Basically whenever Beckham comes near Liam or I, we both make vomit noises.

Adult issues deserve a mature response.

Oh yeah, and when he wanders off to drink water from the fountain or stare at his silly fucking gold shoes in the mirror somewhere, we discreetly pack his weights back on the rack.

20:17
So the first day of war has definitely not been like the troops on Christmas Day climbing over the top and playing football in no-man's land.

Fighting has been hard and fierce. Shock and awe. We'll smoke Saddam and his henchmen out of their holes. (Er, I think we're getting our wars mixed up a little...)

Liam and I are able to take some time with Brent to debrief about the battle so far.

Remember it was Brent, the front of house manager, who was going to find out Beckham's (chortle / puke) real name so that we could attack his house with a tank and get his gym membership torn up.

But Brent has had to deal with the fact that apparently the creche manager and the pilates teacher were caught having sex in the pool after hours. This is true fucking shit, man...

Er, excuse me but how are we supposed to be beating the enemy when our lieutenants are having to deal with members of their squadron having casual sex while on duty?

Oh yeah - and another bit of gossip for you (dinkum shit, baby...)

Apparently Steve, the maintenance guy, was again caught bashing one out to Loose Women on TV in an empty staff common room.

War is hell.

Wednesday, 04 November 2009

22:37
You know that I am definitely not the kind of person who indulges in exaggeration and hyperbole but it's fucking World War 3 at the gym.

And of course there is nothing worse than having to read of me droning on about what happens in the gym, so here goes...

Liam and I are having a chat and working out and we. are. being. fabulous.

So we move to one of the benches where we want to hang our towels and continue in total fabulation.

And no sooner have we picked up two weights when this man appears.

He is a total fuckwit. I am going to describe his fuckwittery to you so that you can understand just how much of a fuckwit he is.

He is about 35 and thinks he's mighty fucking cool. In fact, he thinks he's so fucking cool that he wears shiny gold-coloured fake Dolce & Gabbana shoes.

Yes. A total fucking idiot.

Anyway, so Liam's sitting on the bench with the weights and this arsehole just wanders up and, in this thick Eastern European accent goes "fuck off..."

What!? Who?!

I'm like "I beg your pardon?" And Liam's like "I beg your pardon?" And together we're like "I beg your pardon?"

He says it again, "fuck off I busy here...."

And I'm like "oh, we didn't realise because we've been here for about five minutes and..." and Liam's like "oh, we didn't realise because we've been here for about five minutes and..." and we're both like "oh, we didn't realise because we get the message...

But he says it again... "yeah, fuck off."

And I'm like, "well sorry but there was nothing here to indicate that you were sitting here..."

He cuts me off and says "well what the fuck do you want? Do I have to leave my fucking hair rollers here for you to see...?"

And we're like "wo."

Except we don't say that but instead behave like typical gays and scuttle off to Brent (gay) at the reception desk to complain.

And I'm like "what a tosser" and Liam's like "what a tosser" and Brent's like "what a tosser."

So Liam, Brent and I devise a three-point plan.

1/ Brent is going to find out what his name is.
2/ Liam and I are going to write a letter to the gym manager saying we refuse to work out in an atmosphere filled with hate-fuelled roid-rage, homophobia and racism (might as well throw that one in...)
3/ Brent is going to lobby the gym manager to get this tosser's membership revoked.
4/ Once we have found his name, I am going to use the information to find out where this wanker lives.
5/ Liam and I are going to throw rocks through his lounge window, set fire to his garden and drive an FV4034 Challenger 2 battle tank through his front door.
6/ Liam is going to search Gaydar to see if there are any homos in the army who will lend us a tank.

Fuck that. Who the fuck does he think he is? Who is he? Who. Is. He?

23:03
Oh yeah, I got this e-mail saying "why the hell can't we comment?" I was like "er... I turned them off because it sometimes feels like ..."

I'm not really sure where they went but they're make. So go on then....

23:18
Because you know how much we like visiting in/famous houses and such - for example, I told you where the X Factor house is.
In case you were interested, a famous singer lives here...


View Larger Map
Think er... "Well I lie here in the wet patch,
in the middle of the bed
I'm feeling pretty damn hard done by,
I spent ages giving head."
Remember, it's totally illegal to even step a foot onto the property.

Unless of course they wear gold-coloured fake D&G shoes and are horrid and nasty to other people in the gym.

Then it's acceptable to drive a weapon of war through their front door. Obviously.

Monday, 02 November 2009

2:18
Today I went on an adventure and it wasn't one I had planned. And it's not really an adventure I would go on again.

I was in the Waterstones next to the gym, thumbing through a book about 2008. One of the entries was about the case of Baby P.

If you're not sure, the story is an extremely harrowing one which you can read about here.

Of course, if you were in Britain towards the end of last year you couldn't have escaped the outrage that engulfed the country about Baby P.

And, standing there in the bookshop now reading about the story, my intrigue overcame me. Where did this poor little boy live? What does the house in which he was abused to death look like? Is it still there? Who lives there now?

A quick Google search shows the house is on Penshurst Road in Tottenham, N17.

You may know that parts of Tottenham are pretty depressed. There is nasty war between Turkish gangs taking place in the borough.

As you can see, it's pretty rough...

Abandoned shops and semi-empty streets. It feels edgy.

I have my iPod on, listening to the latest Barbra Streisand album.

If I get caught in some gangland cross-fire at least Barbra will be wailing in my ears as the bullets ricochet off the boarded-up buildings.

There are groups of boys standing on just about every street corner but I'm not brave enough to start pointing my iPhone camera at them. Yet.

From Seven Sisters Road I took the 297 bus to White Hart Lane football stadium. You get off and the area is a mixture of boarded up buildings, car scrap yards and houses.

There is a weird lack of people except for those hanging around. I doesn't feel menacing, just a little uncomfortable.

So you turn onto Penshurst Road from White Hart Lane and you walk through part of a council estate and then road turns to the right.

Carry on until you reach the second last house on the left. And there it is...

Completely unremarkable. Ordinary and a little shabby.

Yet inside that house lived poor little Peter his siblings and an unfit and obese mother who was captivated with violent porn and internet sex-chat sites.

Her boyfriend lived there too. An overweight 6ft 4in man who was obsessed with knives, kept a cross-bow as a weapon and harboured a collection of Swastika memorabilia.

The boyfriend's brother also stayed there. He's a convicted arsonist, burglar and neo-Nazi, arrested in the mid-1990s on suspicion of torturing his dying grandmother to get her to change her will.

There was a Rottweiler called Kaiser and two snakes that slithered loosely around the house.

When ambulance workers went into the house after the toddler was found tortured to death in his cot, they found the house littered with human faeces, dog faeces, and dead rats and chickens to feed the two pet snakes.

Empty vodka bottles and Budweiser cans strewn about the floor, fleas, lice, knives and replica guns.

On the kitchen surface was a dismembered rabbit. The place was infested with fleas and stank of urine.

I honestly didn't know what I was expecting to see or feel when I got to the house. It's a building.
Someone must live there now.

And even though I've now been, stood for a while and looked at the house, I still can't connect with what happened within those walls.

It is depressing to think about, because what occurred there not so long ago was the worst kind of evil. And it's depressing now because it is just so ordinary.

But that's it. It's a house. It can't speak.

People must live there who're oblivious to its history. It needs painting. The bushes in the front need trimming.

Was I really expecting the house to say something? Did I really think there would be something to mark it out as place that has housed hell?

I guess I was just curious.

And that was what I did this afternoon.

Wednesday, 28 October 2009

22:01
I promised you that we would have no mention of the gym whatsoever and you know me. A promise I make is a promise I keep.

So anyway, last night at the gym I crossed a dangerous threshold.

Katie and I had been out all afternoon - we had both had the afternoon off so we decided to have lunch. Which for Katie and I means a bottle of wine.

Now these days I am very very light on fuel which means one glass of wine goes a very long way.

And yesterday the sun was out and we were sitting along the canal in Islington.

Anyway, since one glass of wine for you is about 9 for me, you can imagine what I was like having had three glasses...

We decided to call it quits at around 7-ish and I stumbled to the gym to get my togbag and leave.

But Chris saw me in the changeroom. And Chris said "c'mon - don't be a lazy fucker... let's work!"

Well, it was the first and the last time I am ever working out while drunk. It was the strangest feeling in the world.

I was paranoid that it was obvious that I was drunk which is why I kept checking to see if, for example, I was wearing shorts. I was.

And there's another weird thing that happens when you're drunk in the gym. When you're drunk you think you have special super-duper powers when in fact you have none.

I couldn't even manage one pull up and all the lads were having a pull up competition.

Liam was there and he said that he could smell me.

Going back to the gym tonight I had The Fear. What if I was drunk and had said something inappropriate to a hottie?!

So Liam was there tonight and assured that I was fine. Except I stank of booze. And was a little wobbly. And came last in the pull up competition.

Which is pretty amazing because Mani was also in the pull-up competition.

Mani is a rugby player who has a rugby player's build. (Ahem!)

FYI: Mani is also a raging homo who recently came out the closet and he's like 36 and the reason it took so long is because he's Indian and apparently in Indian culture the gays aren't the most accepted thing.

So while it was okay that I didn't make a fool of myself generally, I did come last in the pull-up competition which is very embarrassing.

On the way out tonight Brent stopped me to ask if I was sober. How the hell did he know that I was drunk!?

Brent said he'd just had a complaint from a member who said they were furious that they had to share the change-room with a fat guy who used the towel like a fan-belt to dry his arse.

So it's not just me who takes offence at the men who do that. Although I wouldn't complain, I would just stew like most people do.

Except of course if I were drunk. Then I probably would have stumbled over and told the grubby fucker that I thought what he was doing was sick.

Luckily it was tonight, not last night.

Although I was pissed thanks to two beautiful bottles of Lourensford Sauvignon Blanc, a wine estate about 13 minutes' drive from my parents house.

Ohmygod. I am in South Africa in 63 days. Fuck.

22:22
Saturday is Halloween and I've been trying out costumes and looks etc. You like what I'm trying to create here?



Don't disrespect the look, baby...

Monday, 26 October 2009

22:09
Is it just me or...?

Or what? I don't know.

Jeez! Get in there, on a Friday night at the gym! I wasn't there this Friday but there were a few sheepish faces when I went in this morning.

Apparently the new thing is a social on a Friday where all the members get together at 8-ish and have a drink at the gym bar.

Brent who works at the reception tells me that five members of the admin team were hauled out of a cubicle upstairs by the janitor. And they weren't in there having sex.

(Come on, think. What do a group of people do in a toilet stall if they're not having sex?)

And Brent says two members of the public were caught having it off in the pilates studio which should have been locked.

So who's up for next Friday's social at the gym?!

It sounds like a bloody good idea because once you've got the booze to get everyone a little relaxed, they all start doing what they've been aching to do for eons.
i.e. bashing one out while lying on the bench press and doing rim-style pull-ups. Or something.

Speaking of such, Brent says a few days ago the poor female janitor caught Steve the maintenance guy (who is so seriously revolting you would hurl were I to describe what he looks like...)

Anyway the poor female janitor walked in on Steve lying on the couch in the staff room with his pants around his ankles knobbing one off to Lorraine Kelly on the TV!

Steve is so awful - did I tell you? Brent says that Steve basically steals all the clothes he wears from members who leave them lying around, lives in a hostel and spends all the money he earns on an annual trip to Amsterdam where he smokes weed and hires hookers.

And Brent's no fucking angel either.

There have been a few times I've pitched up early on a Monday morning for a pre-work run and Brent has been gurning like jelly on a plate.

But it's not just at our gym.

Nicky who works out at that gym in Covent Garden says in the old days they used to have a member of staff on BJ patrol because the members kept gobbing each other off in the sauna.

BJ patrol meant going every 5 minutes to walk past and peer in.

But back to ours...

Brent was also telling me about Jamal who used to work selling gym memberships.

Jamal was seriously hot, like a mixed-race muscle Arab boy who had no hair at all but huge chunky biceps.

Apparently Jamal got the sack because he would sell a gym membership to one person and then give all their mates free guest passes ad infinitum.

Brent says the management reckon that in the end Jamal must have handed out around 5,000 guest passes.

And why did no-one notice?

Because he would tell his clients when to come and work out, then go and stand at reception to collect their passes and hand the passes back to the punters on the way out so that they could use them again!

Oh - and one more thing. Pound coins work in the sun shower in the men's loo.

So don't bother paying £5 for five minutes, just drop a pound coin in the meter and it works for five minutes instead.

Brent says that some busy-body as told management about it but the cost to get the coin machine fixed doesn't outweigh the amount people are defrauding it by.

Oh yeah, and Annita, the lesbian behind the bar has been made redundant so is fairly miffed. If you ask her nicely she's slip you a free protein shake.

Which is probably what she was doing on Friday night. Except it wasn't protein shake it was Pinot Noir. Which is why everyone was so drunk and copping off in various corners.

I just hope on Friday nobody jizzed where I was doing press ups because at one point it hurt and I collapsed face first into the mat.

Walking out with dry and crusty two-day old spunk on the end of your nose is not a path to glory. Urgh!

Tomorrow there will be no more talk of the gym, I promise.

Monday, 19 October 09

05:50
I don't know what this time is but I am awake.

06:21
Oh, it's so bloody cold outside.

10:42
So how do cool kids hang out these days? Well, that's not something I ask myself but Amanda, who sits next to me, has been hanging out on Orkut.

Apparently Orkut is as big as Facebook in some parts of the planet.

It's one thing to stalk the personal trainer at the gym, it's quite another to rummage through personal profiles of people on the other side of the world. Which is what we're doing. Obviously.

Check. This. Out.

Meet Baba...

He lists his favourite cuisine as "sucking humans blood when I get mad."

I guess you don't want to make Baba mad then. Here he is hanging out in the garden...

Do you think they make endless jokes filled with innuendo about "shooting one off" etc?

Go and see more of Baba here.

I have to say that I prefer Faizan and I think you will like him too...

Faizan is a little odd, having videos of bodybuilding and the World Trade Centre disaster among his favourites.

Then, what do you think of er - I think it's Mirza...

He's into Pakistani Army Fighters, bodybuilding and others who have blood group Type-B.

Oh yeah, Mirza is the one on the right in black. His friend in the red is hotter though.

It's so weird to peek into the lives of people who live in an almost parallel universe to yours...

19:45
Does anyone have a cleaner I can have?

We have a new one, Christina, and ohmygod. When we left her a list of things she needs to do, I was tempted to put on the list "make sure you wear a fucking balaclava" because at least then it would be obvious that she was thieving us.

She charges £10 an hour for a minimum of three hours. Fuck!

She has to go.

19:56
She's gone.

20:09
Even though I swore that I wouldn't get into it, I have downloaded Alexandra Burke's new single and I am loving it, I'm sorry to say.

And ohmygod. Sally and I have got tickets to Whitney Houston for next April. It's so gay, it's so exciting.

21:18
Do you think it's weird that some people give things names? Like someone I know calls their laptop Zebedee. I think that's odd.

And others give their cars names. And their cocks.

I think people who do it are slightly unhinged. It's a car for god's sake.

Come to think of it, my grandparents used to call their vacuum cleaner Horace. Why, I cannot tell you?!

21:40
Yeah, I've just phoned Sally. She's in bed and I'm typing this on my bed.

She used to call her old car The Bitchmobile. Ho ho ho...

22:10
Oh god, I need to go to bed. I have to be up at 05:50 again. Fuck.

Tuesday, 13 October 09

09:26
Get out of bed.

Now come on, let's not be having any of those comments like "lucky I didn't wake up with a stiffy" etc.

Anyway. It's time for gym.

10:19
Gym.

11:26
Our Sally has texted because she went out for dinner with her fella last night and there was a commotion outside the restaurant.

It turns out that some blokes from a singing competition on ITV were having dinner at the eatery next door.

Do these two mean anything to you?

They were apparently chomping chicken at the Nando's up the road from us.

11:29
Now we're wondering if the house where these contestants are staying in, is in the area?!

Afterall, our suburb is a little mecca for shlebs you know.
This topic allows me to drop celebrity names like bombs over Dresden.

Stephen Fry lives around the corner. Literally. As does Emma Thompson. Except for Stephen you turn left, Emma you turn right. Ahem! Please note first-name basis...*

Imelda Staunton (slightly high-brow, I admit) is on the right, past the Tesco.

The only person's house who we can't find is (the legendary) Chaka Khan's.

So anyway. It becomes necessarily important for me to find out if we live near the X-Factor house. Right.

* = this is a slight fallacy in that I actually don't know either of them at all. Although if you have lunch at the splendishness that is J's (down from Nando's) there's a very good chance you'll bump into Ms Thompson.

12:04

It turns out we don't live near the X Factor house which is actually on West Heath Road in Golders Green.


View Larger Map

Amusingly though, when the Google Streetcars drove past some time ago, the house was still being built...


View Larger Map

Anyway. Enough of those people in that house.

15:14
Changing the names of films can be fun.

For example...

Mission: I'm bummable or what about er...
Gays of Thunder or say...

Top Bum? Golden Rain Man? Arse Wide Open? or my favourite Torn By The Girth Of A Guy

Ed: I think that's quite enough film titles for the moment...

15:17
I think this is turning into some cheap celebrity tittle-tattle mag. But is that a bad thing?

Oh come one, let's have one more...

What about Cock Tale?

Once again the fucking internet has crashed and I have lost everything I was in the middle of typing... and what the fuck is it with Macintosh fucking computers not auto-fucking-saving work. Fuck.

What was I saying?!

Um...

17:29
Oh yeah... after a long hard days' grafting is this really what you want to be stuck behind while changing at Bond Street tube station...



1...




er...


...22:27
God I've lost the will.

It's mainly because I am so fucking broke at the moment it's not funny. Like you were laughing anyway.

We get paid on Thursday and I have less than £1 to my name in coins. At the moment I am living like a shipwrecked person on a deserted island.

I make food from waste thrown out by the neighbours, I drink from discarded juice containers and when all of that is gone I eat the pets who live nearby.

I've taken to flogging old books, CDs and shoes to passers-by outside the Sainsbury's on Kilburn High Road.

If they ignore me I sing Paula Abdul.

Ooh na na na....
Ooh na na...
You're the whisper of a summer breeze
You're the kiss that puts my soul at ease...
What I'm saying is, I'm into you...

If none of that works then I get my knob out and do the fucking hokey-pokey.

I recycle the teabags and once all the tea has been squeezed out of them, I use the remnants as toothpaste. But I spit it out and it finally goes onto the manure heap.

After gym I eat the towel as a protein supplement. I'm thinking of getting married so I can collect the rice. I'm eating cereal with a bloody fork to save the milk.

When people come over for dinner nowadays, the best I can do is to read the recipes to them.

I have turned my underpants in and out so many times it's like I'm wearing origami.

I am so fucking poor at the moment that the banks are even threatening to repossess the cardboard box I sleep in. Fucking NatWest (again).

When burglars do come and disturb me, it's only to leave money. Even the fucking cockroaches have abandoned the place.

I'm having to use half-lit cigarette ends for heating.

I'm so fucking skint at the moment I can't even bother to put my two cents' worth into finishing this.

Yes, I am so goddam broke I can't even pay attention.

Sunday, 11 October 09

13:26
God, this story about this poor lad from the boyband who died while in Spain is just tragic really. Because literally, there by the grace of God go all of us.

Well, some of us at least.

I mean, as more details come to light so it just becomes more and more familiar. Not to me of course, I'm the fucking Virgin Mary but familiar from what I hear that friends get up to.

It's reported he went on a bit of a boozer with his fella, and you know what it's like, having a few jars in sunny España... things get a little fruity.

So it's no surprise that it now appears that there's interest in a 25 year old Eastern European bloke who "accompanied" the couple back to their apartment.

(18.51: Although this has now been clarified as "he was a friend who stayed overnight" and the police don't want to chat to him...)

Then you read that our poor lad was found, face down in some sort of "praying position", "like he was squatting" according to the papers.

And there by the grace of God go so many of us.

FYI
The Bun says he passed out and choked on his own puke and has the name of the Bulgarian who apparently went back to the flat to "party".
Some Majorcan rag says our lad was left on the couch as his fella and the Buglarian "retired to the bedroom."
The Times describes the squatting bit and says he was naked.
The Telegraph says our lad was in his PJs, not his birthday suit.
Everyone seems confused.

My opinion for what it's worth? The circumstances may be somewhat embarrassing which is why the situation seems to be as made as confusing as possible.

Remember how Elvis died? "The King passed away at his Graceland home in 1977 after being found unresponsive on the bathroom floor."

Read: He was on the loo, passed out and died in a pool of his own vomit.

Life sucks. And then you die.

Oh yeah, and my favourite line from the man on the Beeb: "Now of course one doesn't like to speculate in such tragic circumstances but do we have any idea..."

19:51
Do you want a story that's equally as grim but thankfully not as tragic?

Apologies if I've told you this before but... there was guy who I went to school with who was particularly photogenic.

He was at a party one night and passed out on the couch with a Scotch tumbler balancing on his chest.

He apparently moved and the glass slipped and fell onto the floor and smashed.

Trying to move, he too rolled off the couch and fell onto the floor with his face and eye landing into the jagged edge of the broken tumbler's base.

He now only has the sight in one eye.

That's what I mean by there by the grace of God go we, thank your lucky stars etc.

Thursday, 08 October 09

22:14
So we're watching some documentary about Peter Andre and

Oh shut up, listen...

So I am going to the gym this morning and I'm just leaving Finchley Road tube station and this woman standing outside the entrance says to me, "Jesus loves you..."

And I look at her and I'm like, 'no you silly bitch - Jesus is in love with Madonna at the moment. And besides, I didn't know he wasn't into blokes.'

I must have said something completely fucking alien to her because she just stood there with her eyes swivelling.

But like I really want to know that Madonna's fella fancies me? Just keep it to yourself will you dear...

This 'sharing' culture really annoys me. Like on Facebook people post stuff like "Johnny Arsewipe has just been to dinner at the Ivy."

What? You went to the Ivy because you couldn't be bothered to reheat the Sainsbury's instant mash potato pie that you seem to always scoff on, you fat twat?!

I'm thinkin maybe I should share a little more. Maybe I should stand outside Finchley Road tube station and stop punters and say "did you know that sometimes I'm a little partial to cock, actually."

"And is this your son Daniel? Hello Daniel, did you know that I love nothing more on a Thursday night than to go to bed with my hair all matted with spunk?"

You know, if we're going to start sharing all our fucking dirty habits then we might as well haul it all out the fucking cupboard.

But that's a lie though. I'm not partial to having the whipped cream near me. I mean I don't know, go and flick it on our Sally's curtains but don't bring it round here.

While I mention it, please will you spare a thought for our Sally at the moment. She's going through a rough patch.

And I don't mean that like she had a Brazilian a few weeks ago and is itching something chronic.

No, our Sally and her boyfriend have hit the skids a bit. She thinks he's a wimp.

And it turns out he's on anti-depressants too, I'm not joking. Apparently when men are on anti-depressants their er, range of fire, if you will - isn't what it should be.

Our Sally says that on Wednesday night he finally apologised and explained why, just when they were about to light the fuse to the fireworks, he went limp like a souffle in a cupboard.

And she says it's all the more depressing because he's equipped with an Exocet although at the moment it's performing like a Smith and Wesson firing blanks at the school swimming gala.

So anyway, I dodged Jesus's friend and made it to the bloody gym at around lunchtime which is a bit of a silly time to go because it's me and my heaving bench-presses and some woman lying on the ground strengthening her pelvic floor.

And our Chris wasn't even there to offer a quick spot. Or a squat.

Whatever.

It's Thursday evening and there's one day of the week left. Stop reading this and go to bed because that's what I am going to do.

It's nearly midnight which means that I am about to turn into a fucking pumpkin and since Peter Peter the Pumpkin Eater isn't around tonight, I might as well have a quiet one in.

And Liam sends his love.

Now fuck off.

Tuesday, 06 October 09

07:23
Or as Madonna would say; "I wanna hear you make some noise you mutherfucken pussies."

Liam and I are supposed to be running at the gym but obviously a dead badger on the train tracks has prevented Liam from appearing at the gym at this hour.

In fact, I am not thinking about that but am instead concentrating on the Offer Nissem remix that's blasting through the headphones.

[PAUSE]

On a point of order can I just say that our Sally, my housemate, has gone on a fucking winter bender. She's put the fucking heating up something chronic.

I mean it's not that cold outside but in here it's like sitting in some dodgy shag-house in Bermuda without airconditioning where some old ropey bird will give you hand-shank for a fiver.

I'm trying to type this but I'm fucking roasting.

But she's a good bird is our Sally. Do you know that she managed to pull a bloke in SuperMartXe on Saturday and will you note how I spelt that correctly.

Yeah it's true. There are apparently straight blokes who go although whether she actually pulled him or rather led him off to the loos and sucked the chrome off his tow-hitch in return for a line of Peruvian's finest isn't clear.

But I'll believe her when she said she had a snog and a fag with him out front.

Fag as in Lambert and Butler, not Lambert bonked the butler.

Oh but listen, later in the day at gym we saw our Liam.

He said he woke up and heard the rain beating down on the roof and felt like he was lying next to an inflatable pool at a piss night in some dodgy bar.

So he rolled over and went back to bed. Which is fine really because I'm not the kind of person to do cardio with.

I stick me earphones in and run as fast as laxative chocolate and a glass of milk. Why the fuck do you wanna talk to someone when you can barely fucking breathe?

Anyway, we see our Liam at the gym once we've finished work. We're doing shoulders.

And let me tell you - tonight at the gym, God was there. God is the man so bloody hot the earth fucking rotates around his pecs. Seriously, given half the chance, I would bang him like a barn door in a gale.

He comes over to talk to Liam and I which is a little embarrassing because I'm quite good at holding it all in but Liam turns the colour of a ripe fucking strawberry.

He wants to share diet tips and I think 'I'll give you something to fucking nosh on, mate...'

So Liam's going to e-mail our diet - or rather - the diet Chris gave us. And we're going to get to see what God eats. Supermarket trolleys and kittens I bet you.

Oh God, I don't know if I told you but our Chris has resigned from the gym. He leaves at the end of November.

It really is the end of an era because Chris is the King of Gym. Seriously - he fucking radiates inspiration and motivation.

And not only because it's a treat when a Men's Health cover model (runner up) comes over and suggests you pair off somewhere to do some squats.

Although I don't really like him in that way anyway. He's a friend. It's weird to think of friends in that way.

I mean you wouldn't go to the cinema to watch a fruity movie and lean over at the end and ask your friend to help you shuffle one out before the lights came up, would you?

So that's the gym and erm...

What the fuck was I talking about? Oh, I don't know.

Other stuff happened today but I can't remember what it is. Listen talk amongst yourselves, I'm fucking off to bed. Tomorrow we'll do less of the fucking talking in italics.

Monday, 28 September 09

NINETY THREE
08:14
Jesus Christ.

Or rather Jeezy Kreezy. It's Monday morning and what the fuck?!

Today is no gym so we're not too stressed. God it's weird to get up in the morning and go straight to work. Feels odd.

10:53
We're trying to clear something up.

You know the wankey books that people like Picasso spunked all over? Is the name pronounced "Mole-skin" or "Molluskeenah"? We're veering towards the latter.

b11:06
Wikipedia says "mol-a-skeena". So that's settled then.

14:28
More bloody choices.

Right. There is a serious one to be made and you can help make the decision.

There are some little quaint oddities about South Africa.

For example, in South Africa everyone is free and the chattering classes love to drone on about how all citizens in "The Rainbow Nation" are beautiful, equal and special.
Despite that, South Africans have a bizarre obsession with beauty pageants.

Everyone is equal and special except for beauty pageant winners. They're just a little more special and equal than everyone else.

Like Miss South Africa who is a national celebrity. Someone who is lauded at shopping centres, kisses babies and raises the sick, the lame and the downright bone-bloody-idle.

And what's good for Miss South Africa is good for Mr South Africa too...

Meet Clayton.

Clayton is a finalist in the Mr South Africa competition.

As is customary, it is important for Mr South Africa to be beautiful on the inside and the outside.

On the inside, how beautiful is this? "What we need to realize as a nation is that our communities in general are extension s of our homes, and that in order to see the positivity we seek in our own lives, we need to become actively involved in painting over the cracks where necessary."

(Plastering not painting, surely?!)

Anyway, more important though is what Clayton looks like half naked...

You like?

No, no... don't feel upset. There is no reason to feel left out because the gays have it covered to.

Yes, there's also Mr Gay SA.

And don't panic because I have it whittled down. You can plough through the finalists if you want here but I have found the two most likely to win...

Charl on the left or Chris on the right. So who'd you pick?

I am going to go with the one on the left. Simply because - what the hell is that Armani belt all about on the right?

So, let's just get straight (haha) down to it. Which of them would you like to bang like a barn door in a gale (because what's it's all about basically...)

Answers on the back of a toilet door somewhere.

16:29
Eating a salad from Tossed. It's yum. Except for the fact that all the people who work at Tossed (they do salads - see what they've done?!)

Anyway, all the people who work at Tossed wear pink T-shirts that say "I'm a tosser" on the back.

Har har.

17:04
We're doing... stuff


about....


um...


Oh god, listen. Let's talk amongst ourselves. It's Monday night. There's an entire fucking week to get though.





21:35
Holy shit, it's nearly October. I just realised that.

And Michael Jackson's still dead.

Sunday, 27 September 2009

NINETY FOUR
21:06
I've been all over the place and not physically.

It's a consequence of living on two continents. London is my home but Cape Town is my playground.

A home is where your life is, a playground is where your heart is. A playground is not somewhere that you could live.

It's Sunday night, it's slightly warm outside but we're inside watching X-Factor.

One week ago...

Last Sunday night I spent with Avie and Alex. It was so special.

Tomorrow they have a life to live. I have one too. And mine is in London. Theirs is in Cape Town.

There is a moment when you go 'ohmygod, is this my life?' A moment when you ask 'shit, is this my home?' But the sad and difficult truth is that London is my home.

When I got onto the Tube last Tuesday morning, after arriving from Johannesburg the woman said "the next stop is Finchley Road, please mind the gap between the train and the platform". I felt like I was home. I felt a sense of belonging.

But this is leaving Cape Town...

Heading southward we took off and headed over False Bay banking left and then pointed north to Johannesburg over Somerset West.

Here we are, coming in to land at Johannesburg...

Yeah, I'm being sentimental.

It's so difficult not knowing where your heart is. Or rather, it's so shit to realise that your head and your heart are not in the place where you'd like them to be.

Okay.

Tomorrow there's no more of this mawkish crap. To be honest, I find it difficult to type.

The sad truth is that in around 93 days I am flying back to Cape Town for the summer and New Year.

Maybe some changes need to be made. Maybe I need to pull myself together. I don't know.

Will you join me tomorrow for a fresh start?

No drinking. No smoking. No bad behaviour.
All pretend happiness.
All make-believe peace.

Please. Tomorrow will you, with me, pretend that my life is normal? Will you treat me as one of your own?

Tomorrow is beautiful. It is a new day. Can we call it quits until tomorrow?

(The pathetic thing is that I have nothing more to type because I can't say the words.)

Friday, 25 September 09

00:23
If you were to guess the kind of day, you wouldn't ask!
And you wouldn't have needed to have asked because you would have guessed.

00:35
I have a new ambition.

This to add to my ambition to be:
an Olympic Swimmer
a Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer
an underwear model.

My new ambition is to be a concert pianist and play the third movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata no. 14. Yes, that dreaded piece.

Everyone murders the first movement (to death) but the third is completely fucking radical. Check out this birdy in the red dress really give it a fucking hammering.

She hands it such bloody stick that there are even a few duff notes*.
* = ropey left hand at 0:53, holds the sustain pedal for slightly too long at 1:14 and the wrong finger on the wrong key at 4:02.

Watch at around 4'37, the poor woman convulses in a semi-bloody-orgasm, lifting about two inches off the stool. Get her!

Does anyone have a Steinway I could borrow?

I reckon it's easy - the left hand does some weirdo-style Alberti bass and the right hand is just doing arpeggios in C# minor. How hard can it be?

00:42
I am going to practice my hand technique in bed. Tomorrow is going to be a beautiful day, I can feel it!

Wednesday, 23 September 09

08:35
It's that time. Time to wake up and face the world with a smile.

Of course you know every well that the only thing I wear is a grin from ear to ear*.
* = file under "Bullshit".

12:10
In exactly 98 days' time I will be on a Boeing that is about to touch down in Cape Town. This makes me very excited.

14:18
Everyone in the office is going potty over British Military Fitness.

Of course I just yawn because, as you know, I've been involved in paramilitary organisations for years.

More importantly, the reason everyone's going potty over British Military Fitness or BMI (to those in the know) is because of Jonny.

'And who the fuck is Jonny', I hear you ask?

Here...

So now whose up for a little PT?!

Here's what we know about Jonny:
1/ He was scouted while dancing in a club in San Francisco.
2/ He's posed in DNA magazine #113

So come on, own up. One of you fuckers must know this kid. Who is he and how did he get such a.m.a.z.i.n.g. guns?

You know the drill; foxycoxy AT me.com

All correspondence will be treated confidentially. Until I paste it all over the internet that is.

16:23
Do you ever have that moment where you log into your bank account and go "oh shit"? Right now, I'm having that moment.

20:28
Making lists.