"Well, I went to school in Olympia, and everyone's the same. We look the same, we talk the same... Yeeeeaaaah"
Yowzers, that's a little loud for a morning.
Note to self: Not that one again...
Yes, we're at the gym.
But hold on, what's that?!
Oh... fucking desert mirages. It makes the unacceptable seem legit if only for a few seconds.
Ohgod, I think I'm going to throw up.
Me: drinking vanilla protein shake with warm water.
At the moment I take a big gulp of this tepid lump yellowish crap I glance down at this middle-aged man's feet. It seems he has not cut his toenails, I'm guessing, for about 20 years.
The big nail is curled over the front of his toe. It is long, brown and rotten.
That and with this warm milky crap in my mouth, I gag.
There is nearly protein shake all over the changing room floor.
Will you forgive me if I tell you that I have forsaken that red one again?
Look, it's a fucking riot on the goddam Hammersmith and City Line.
Ping! And that means that it's elevenses time...
And while I'm shoveling my self-made and scrumptious non-carb food down my gullet I am looking at old holiday photos...
Oh, I know I've told you but I absolutely love flying. Can I bore you with some snaps?
Okay, so this is us coming in from the west to land at Heathrow.
That cream mass under the first engine isn't vomited protein shake but Windsor Castle.
This one is about ten minutes after we'd taken off from Heathrow enroute to Johannesburg.
I love it on overcast days because you take off and hit cloud, it gets a little bumpy and then after about 5 minutes you break through the top of the cloud and it's completely serene except for the sound of the engines whizzing.
And then this one...
I'd been asleep for most of the flight from London to Joburg and woke up with the warm winter sun beating through the windows.
This was a brilliant flight because the cabin was only about 20% full. Sit wherever you like and say to the hostesses, "oh, do you mind if I have a glass of wine for my friend...?"
She smiles and goes, "sure, and you'd better have hold onto one for the guy sitting behind you."
Of course the row behind you is completely empty.
When I win the lottery I am going to blow the money on flying for the rest of my life.
It's back to earth with a bump. Meeting time.
It's patronising to ridicule and then pity something at the same time.
So do you say "yeah, they have a point what with British forces in harms' way in Afghanistan."
Or do you say "stupid dickheads can't even spell..."
Gym-gyminy, gym-gyminy gym-gym gyrooo... I do what I like and I likes what I do.
(With apologies to chim-chimney)
In commercial radio or television that people who advertise on your medium are the people who pay your salary. You treat them like kings.
Although there are some limits.
There's a guy who's spending a lot of money and he's the local head-honcho of a very very well known brand of car-maker.
We'd met at a breakfast and at first I was a little suspicious, but what did I know - I was 22.
Then, a few months later I was sitting and talking behind the mic and while there is music on, one of the studio phones rings.
I hadn't asked for anyone to give me a call so I pick it up to see who it is. It's Mr Car-maker!
And I don't remember exactly because it was more than 8 years ago but the conversation goes something like:
"Hello, it's Mr Car-maker - we met at the breakfast the other week.
"I enjoy listening to you"
"My wife's away with the kids"
"Fancy coming around for a drink?"
It's a mixture of outrage, fear, curiosity, titillation - god knows what because after leaving work early that Saturday evening, I pull up at the gates of this enormous house in Constatia - a very posh suburb in Cape Town.
It is all really odd because I go in - and...
It's completely obvious to me and him what's going on. We have a drink at his bar and talk about how huge his house is and that his wife and kids who were away.
So he offers to take me on a tour and as if by magic we end up in the guest bathroom which is palatial. A huge glass shower, a jacuzzi-sized bath and bidet.
Only people with far too much money have bidets because there is absolutely no fucking point to them. If someone has a bidet in their bathroom and Cristal in the fridge you know immediately - all money and no taste.
And then of course there is the stilted, nervy conversation. "Oh, nice shower..."
"Yeah, it works really well."
"Would you like to try...?"
"Hehe... sounds like fun - I mean..."
"Hold on, I'll get you a towel..."
So now I'm showering in this huge glass shower in the middle of the bathroom and he shouts over the steam, "you should try the jacuzzi!"
Okay, I was half expecting him to appear in the shower with me but that doesn't happen.
Remember, this is some rich married guy who's talked me up on the phone. What the fuck is going on?!
Anyway, so he shouts that the jacuzzi is ready and I stop the shower, get out and jump into the jacuzzi.
He must have been early 40s and I have to say, extremely attractive in a 40-year-old George Clooney "I run lots of marathons and have a good tan" kind of way.
We're sitting in the jacuzzi and of course things get a little odd. There is silence and both of us are thinking "is there going to be a move."
"Will someone move? Who will move first? Will he move his legs under water or will I?"
Of course then suddenly I have his pang of "what the fuck is going on...?" I realise I need to say something. I think I comment on the bidet.
In the end we both end up standing in the middle of the bathroom and shaking one out together.
I never even offer him my hand and he never offers me his.
Somewhere between the shower and the jacuzzi he must have thought "what the fuck are you doing here..." just as I thought "what the fuck am I doing here...?"
Shortly afterwards I leave.
I don't remember seeing him again but the car adverts still aired.
It was an outrageous phone call. He was confident and rich. I was completely amazed and bemused. I wasn't expecting money.
To be fair, I don't think he knew what he was expecting from me.
Aboveall, I think we were two completely bewildered guys who'd thought with our crotch and not our cranium.
I wonder if he's still happily married?
Yeah, I got into some pretty ridiculous situations.
Take a young guy who's still living with his parents. Hand him lots of money and thrust him into the public eye. It's the perfect fucking storm.
Liaisons with an art teacher. Being woken up by my boss in some posh flat that wasn't mine. Housesitting and necking most of their rare wine collection. Passing out drunk at work. Fuck.
I'm going to hide under the covers.