The day tries to begin.
I simply cannot be bothered to let it.
I reach over to the iPhone and push it. Or kick it. Or whatever.
Let's try and start the day again.
I feel weak, lethargic and uneasy. I think I may have swine flu.
I check the NHS website.
A box that asks "do you have a temperature that rivals a kettle at full tilt?" requires a tick.
There is no box to mark that declares "I just can't be fucked."
On the Jubilee Line I spot two people wearing masks. Dicks.
You're going to have to take my word for this. My beating of the iPhone over it's early morning posturing has rendered it void of battery power.
I think it's just sulking. Bastard thing.
I see one person on the Central Line wearing a mask. Dickhead.
I'm tempted to stick my finger up my nose to tickle it and make myself sneeze.
Knob-end fucking dick-splats are wearing masks yet holding onto the handles. There are more germs on the fucking bars than there are on a public toilet seat. This irony has obviously escaped these spunk-gargling, jism-whore, mask-wearing bastards. Turds.
I'm at work.
What do you do at work?
Still at work. Doing what people at work do.
Stanley Kubrick was a master at choosing music for his films. For example, his selection of the opening of Also Sprach Zarathustra has redefined that piece of music forever.
And although used earlier in The Exorcist, I would argue that Penderecki's work reached far large appeal thanks to "The Shining".
That's why I love Shostakovich's Waltz #2 from the Jazz Suites. It is perhaps the best music to sit and listen to while watching crowds of people in a shopping centre.
Is it just me or does there seem to be a large amount of "man" in the news today?
First we have Carlos Acosta who's apparently the world's greatest dancer. He's performing in a ballet or is it a rave? I'm didn't get the details...
Changed your mind?
And who is this Katie person? She's apparently an author and launching a book in Selfridges. But she's in a swimming costume? A little confusing but who are we to complain?
Oh yes... you know who I have called shotgun on. Hands off bitches, he's mine. No, not the primping one on the left...
It's him, on the right.
Beauty unparalleled that it hurts to look at. We think he works at the A&F shop. Does anyone know any more?
Particularly, do you know his phone number and if so, would you pass it onto me. Thanks.
(I also need to know his name so that when I think about stuff I can ask myself; "What would ----- do?")
Summary: Some nice bulk. I'm pretty sure they belong to a rugby player. Could do with some definition. Nice calves but the quads are a little too bulky and not muscular.
Remember last night I was telling you that I had breaking news. Okay.
I couldn't find who I needed to speak but I have, instead, spoken to a source very close to the story and it concerns Will.i.am.
Incase you'd missed it (you were probably asleep)...
Will.i.am is a very hunky blonde personal trainer who appeared at my gym about two months ago. Cute face, AMAZING body. For a while I was smitten.
He got called Will.i.am because he resembled a Will.
Well, "is a very hunky" should now be "was". Will.i.am's been sacked.
Get this - he was harassing his women clients.
I'm told he would phone these women up under the pretext of arranging a personal training session and then start trying to invite them out for a drink and he was bothering some of them late at night by leaving voice messages saying that he loved them.
Apparently some of the messages went on for a few minutes, him begging women to see him and then telling them (in rather fruity terms) what he'd like to do with them and then saying that he absolutely loved them.
So it's not quite as good as the story of the guy at the gym who got caught with the toilet plunger up his bum, but a damn side better than the meat-head who got done for trying to steal dumbbells.
A good gossip is so satisfying.
And fuck it, let's not kid ourselves. Everyone gossips about everyone else.
I bet you somewhere there's a blog where someone has written; "went to gym tonight and this arsey fucker in brand new Adidas shoes was there. He's a complete jack-off because he walks around like he owns the place but it's pity the body doesn't reflect the arrogance."
They'd probably be referring to me.
When I turned 30 I dunno what happened but my switch marked "Care What People Think" fused. I have never bothered to try and get it replaced.
I wear my heart on my sleeve, I say what I think, I tell people what I think. Screw it.
I spent far too long caring what other people think.
About 99% of the insecurities that gay people have is based on the problem that they worry about what other people think.
How the hell did we get onto talking about this?
Oh yeah - having said earlier that I don't care about what others think, the irony doesn't escape me that in all the pictures and videos of me on this blog, I have either pixellated my face or have a cap and sunglasses on.
The red cap and white sunglasses. Fuck it. They're a trademark.
Maybe I should ditch the cap and sunglasses and use something like this as my trademark picture...
At least then I could be sure that people would like me for who I am, not for what I looked like.