Tuesday, 7 July 2009

Tuesday, 07 July 09

Beep beep beep. Fucking alarm.

I lie in bed for about 40 seconds before realising that my intransigence is eating into precious cardio time and precious cardio time lost means my sixpack will not be as good as it should which means I stand to lose the competition we have going at the gym to see who, at the end of July, has the best sixpack.

I am not going to win - you should see Ali - but I wanna at least make the podium.

I jump out of bed.

Cardio-fucking-bonanza of cycling which means hot legs and a flat stomach.

I time it so that the build-up in the extended mix of "Heartbreak" reaches the point where the work-out needs to reach its most intense. Get stuck in bitches...

And at this time it's become tradition. It's all quiet this morning on La Ligne de la Centrale.

Morning meeting time. Yesterday we did Smutty A-Z. Today we'll do rude words starting with 'A'...

1/ Arse
2/ Ass bandit
3/ A-hole
4/ Um
5/ I can't think of...

Er, maybe there aren't that many smutty words starting with "A" that don't mean another word for ass. Tomorrow 'B' is going to be more successful I feel.

A woman at work who usually just ignores me is suddenly being very nice. This is odd.

I made a jokey comment about someone the other day who I'd spotted on the TV. I made the joke to a friend. I know this friend is connected. I know she has friends who have friends.

Today I meet her and she says, "Bob I have something for you..." I goes "what?"

Check. It. Out. My very own.

The moment I get home, it's going on the noticeboard next to the rag-eared photos of Philip Olivier and some aussieBum model.

And hands off bitches, I spotted him first. Except it's going to be pretty difficult prizing him away from his girlfriend. No matter though.

(Disclaimer: The above is just a joke. I have never fancied another bloke in my life. See, you're laughing. I told you it was a joke.)

So everyone is watching the TV. It's the funeral for that black guy who sang the song with the vampires in it. Anyway...

...when I die one day and they shut down the whole of Los Angeles so that all my family can drive in blacked out Rolls-Royces to my final resting place, it is going to be your job to make sure that...

... they remove the stickers on the limousines' windscreens that say "Rolls-Royce Executive Hire".


I realise that White City tube station is becoming a bit like some low-rent art gallery that relies on paintings of semi-naked Grecian athletes to pull the punters in.

Remember on Friday I showed you that picture that could poke your eye out if you're not careful? Well now we have this huge poster...

This immediately reminds me of the word perineum. We could have used it instead of 'penis' in our Smutty A-Z.

When something is worth doing, it's worth repeating. This is why I am back on La Ligne de la Centrale and scribbling in the free newspapers that litter the carriage...

Do you think someone will spot this?

The last time we did it it yielded not a single result. I guess it's because those over-zealous cleaners swooped up all the papers with their metal walking sticks with the clawey thing at the end.

Let's see what happens this time.

If you find one, there's an extra-special surprise...

So I'm in the gym and there's this guy who is just staring.

It's becoming a tad ridiculous and in the old days I would have felt a little uncomfortable but now I don't care. I have to say though that I don't completely object to him eyeing me up. He's not hot but there's something about him.

He's no goddam Ryan Reynolds (not my type but probably yours...) but is well presented and just - well, I was going to say normal but then again someone earlier described MIchael Jackson as a normal guy in a strange situation.

Finally, I decide fuck this... so I turn to a blank page in my gym book, write down my name and number and tear it out.

He's sitting on the machine where you extend your legs. He sees me walking over to him and immediately looks straight ahead.

Fuck that baby.

I walk over to him and I hand him the piece of paper. "If you're just going to sit there and stare and not bother to ask then I might as well do it myself."

I can't tell if the look on his face is "ohmygod swoon" or "ohmygod will the fucking earth just completely fucking swallow me up right now."

I turn around to walk away, a little shocked with myself at what I just did and head straight for the water cooler. Thank god there is a queue. I can stand here with my back turned.

Back now at the bench I was at and a few machines away the leg extension machine is empty.

Chris comes over to talk and we end up doing around five minutes of abs.

Leaving the gym and again we reach our regular series; "Bobby's Dull Pictures Of Cars When We'd All Rather See Pictures Of Men In Their Underwear".

And for today's motoring segment we have a repeat offender. But it's a beautiful offender so that's okay.

Drool. Just drool.

Oh, stop moaning like a power bottom gagging for double penetration at a group sex party who's just realised that everyone else in the room isn't a top.

Here's a shameless knicker-pic for you...

(Using this picture from here amuses me slightly because these guys were dull straights who were bussed into gay pride simply because they look good in Calvin Kleins. Patronising. Never!?)

This website is hilarious. Don't look at it if you're in the office. Some of the more crappy examples are the better ones.

You never heard about it from me.

Haven't heard from Gym Boy. He's probably too embarrassed to text me even though he bloody should (hello! if you're reading this.)

Or maybe he threw the number away and is now regretting it. I hope so.

What I didn't think about is that I am probably going to see him tomorrow at gym. It'll only be weird if he makes it weird.

Although it should be okay because tomorrow Liam, Chris and I are working out together. Thank god for safety in numbers.

Oh yeah, and he was very very definitely checking me out. I haven't just made a complete fuck-up by handing my number to a straight who's going to hide in the bushes and curb me when I arrive tomorrow. He took the piece of paper and looked at it while I said the words.


Check you on the flipside.
(This is apparently 'street' for good night)


fleetmonkey said...

Weirdest MJ funeral detail apart from the car hire arrangements I thought was the fact that the poll bearers were all in matching uniform with sparkly glove.

You realise you probably traumitised the lad staring in the gym. You should get yourself calling cards printed for this sort of eventuality rather than tatty notebooks. Apparently calling cards are supposed to be hip and with it. I've got business cards - but then i'm a one man band so it doesn't matter if "trade" rings my office number.

Anonymous said...

We get loads of lascivious messages online from guys who go to our gym (along the lines of 'saw you on the benchpress today - I want you to spitroast me').

In real life, though, these guys don't even acknowledge that we exist, let alone come up and say anything.

Maybe they have boyfriends? Who knows.

I couldn't stand to watch the MJ thing for more than a minute. All the 'he's a saint' crap made me ill, especially when some lady was waxing on about how in America you're innocent until proven guilty.

Irrespective of the (alleged) child molestation stuff, who here doesn't think he was a total whack-job? Hands up... c'mon. Hands up!

We're holding onto the tickets we have for the 02. I figure he may still turn up.

Jay said...

Man you have some balls! Big ones too! One word - OMG! Do tell us how it goes from the gym guy. I would love to have done what you just did, thou am way to scared. Next time give him your facebook, he is more likely to contact you then.

Well done dude!


ps....you made me smile again! :-DDD

Anonymous said...

That car was at the valet at Nobu, Berkeley Square, a few weeks back when I was visiting London from Los Angeles. It has crass new money written all over it, but that's a nice alternative to the writing I've grown accustomed to: tasteful destitution.