"Ring the alarm, I've been through this too long and I'll be damned if I see another chick on your arm!"
I have programmed the alarm clock to play Beyonce.
Right. So I am peddling and Freemasons is blaring; "you've been cheating while I'm sleeping and telling me lies".. etc.
The bicycles all face mirrors and a bank of TV screens. There are around ten of them abreast.
I am on the one on the far left - there is no-one else on any of the bicycles in this row. Behind me there is not a single person on any of the treadmils...
To hammer home this point I have provided a simple diagram...
Again, I am on the treadmill marked with the blue cross, all the other ones around me are vacant.
So when Fathead Knob-end Dickwad appears, which bicycle do you think he gets onto?
Answers on the back of a postcard or on the loo door in Rupert Street bar.
To be different and honour the idiocy of the guy who insisted on sidling up right next to me in the gym (I made a big scene then huffed, sighed and stomped off to the bike on the far right...)
Anyway, to be different, I decide that on this day I am going to forsake La Ligne De La Centrale for the Hammersmith & City Line.
It's all kicking off in carriage two.
He's shoving his hand into his pocket as hard as possible to push his jeans down and show off a little pink knickerage...
Everyone's done it. Boring. Next.
We're having our daily meeting, the one where I have to excuse my brain from the pain of the gathering to make lists of smutty words instead. It's a great way to pass the time.
We've done 'A' and 'B' so today is 'C'... a veritable and rich mine of smut.
It's an e-mail from Mikey with a list of 'C' words already prepared. This leaves me with the difficult task of trying to work out which words Mikey has left out...
Shabba! Meeting's over and I haven't even had time to think of cum dump and er...
I realise that Mikey's list is rather comprehensive.
I don't think you've met Mikey actually? I would have introduced you to him some time ago but I didn't think you'd be interested...
(I think this has sufficiently embarrassed him enough now...)
Nathan's been to America and has brought back some novelty chocolates.
I resist the temptation to chomp The Liberty Bell or Mount Rushmore so instead sink my knashers into the Mississippi steamer thingy.
This is the first chocolate I have had in about 17 days. It is heavenly.
Work. Done. Leave.
Baker Street, Platform 2. Waiting for the Metropolitan Line.
Hmmm... four out of 10.
It seems those bloody swimmers are going to haunt me, reminding me of past indiscretions. The bastards.
They've followed me all the way to Baker Street. They're hunting for me in a pack.
They've spoken to each other. They know stuff. I'm a little nervous.
Why do they have this weird fixed expression on their face?
Hello, it's cardio in the morning and weights in the evening. Do try and keep up at the back!
Anyway, so doing chest and even though I am rather tired, it's the choonz that are pushing me, pushing me.
Particularly the Seamus Haji remix of "Last Night A DJ Saved My Life", which reminds me of being topless and covered in sweat on the dancefloor at Fire on a filthy Monday morning.
(Throw-away line to shamelessly try and make my social life sound a lot more interesting than it really is.)
He is 6'2, legs like the wooding carvings on the bottom of a Chippendale (the furniture). Big muscular arms in a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off.
He is quite sweaty which means the shape of his body is obvious because the T-shirt is stuck to him. Big, muscular, beefy, tanned, built, ohmygod.
He is like something that's stepped out of the HTML coding of AllAmericanJocks.com
But that's not all.
In big blue letters across the back of the white T-shirt is says "Notre Dame Football." I am not joking - I have a semi.
Right, gym is now completely fucked for the rest of the evening.
Josh (for that is what I've christened him) is mine.
Josh is doing chest so I am doing chest.
Josh is using the cable machine so I must use the cable machine next to it.
Josh is doing abs so I feel I must do abs too.
Josh is heading for the change rooms so...
Ohmygod. I am standing next to the bench Josh was lying on. The heat from his power is rising off it.
A few minutes ago he was on the bench, lying on his back and thrusting his feet out towards the front to punish his lower abs. Now all that remains is Hot Jock Muscle Boy Sweat.
Boys. For the first time evah in the history of any blog in the entire world, I am so proud to be able to bring you an exclusive.
The closest any of us are ever going to get to experiencing a real live God of the Gym. Yes, it's the world's first ever...
Rubbing your finger on the sweaty grey block reveals just what it's like to be up close and personal with probably one of the hottest guys in the world ever.
Go on, scratch it. It really works.
My work here is done.
Leaving the gym.
And as if it's some sort of recurring nightmare for you; Even More Bloody Pictures Of Posh Cars That Bobby's Taken When All We Want Is Semi-Naked Buffers In Speedos.
A Bentley Arnage Red Label. First launched in October 1999, under the hood you'll find a monster 6litre V8 and inside it's leather and polished wood. Oh, be still me beating heart.
Okay, stop your bloody moaning.
You're behaving like a dog without a table leg. Here's your daily hit...
All you want is half-naked men.
Do you have any idea how uncomfortable this is for me? I'm not even homo you know.
But business is business.
Talk amongst yourselves, I'm off to bed with a warm towel and Hustler magazine.