Tuesday, 14 July 2009

Tuesday, 14 July 09

"Something kinda ooh, jumping on my tutu..."

Jeez, thank god I haven't set Girls Aloud as my alarm clock. I think that would irritate me first thing in the morning.

Again I'm at the gym cycling but thankfully no-one has set decided to sidle up onto the bicycle right next to me. I look around in the mirror...

Fuck me but this place is like the Death Valley of talent, first thing in the morning.

It's all overweight men in stretched white vests with hairy shoulders and headbands.

Having a mini cadenza that I'm fitting in with the middle aged men, their paunches and crises rather well.

The kind of men who think Diet Coke means you can have twice as much and good sex is being able to get it up.

Can I pose a question to you that has me flummoxed? No-one has yet been able to tell me, mainly because I haven't found the appropriate person who I can ask...

But think about this - and I mean it in the same way that I am inquisitive to know how Concorde flies and BlueTooth works - but how do very overweight men wipe their bums?

Tube time!

I know how much this means to you and the words I would use would just be ugly marks on an otherwise pristine space of white. So instead I shall let the picture do the talking...

More titillation on the left at White City Tube station.

Or rather; am I just a little starved of cheap thrills?

For today's chocolate thrill I shall be chomping on the Liberty Bell...

An e-mail arrives. What the hell is this all about?! All it says is "have one of me in my Speedo."

Why, thank you.

Oh, go on. You know you want to.... e-mail: foxycoxy AT me.com and yes, I'm talking to you!

Walking into the gym.

Talking to Liam. Have done nothing.

Still talking to Liam, have still done nothing although I don't feel as bad as I should because this morning I did do 30 minutes of heavy cycling, so much so that my legs were wobbly afterwards.

It's been about 31 minutes and I tell Liam I cannot be here.

No talent, bored, tired, stuck in Groundhog Day - the list is endless.

My passive non-gymming attitude has rubbed off on Liam because we are sitting outside the gym at the Apostrophe drinking skinny lattes.

I resist the temptation to get the conversation going by saying; "do you know that when you first started coming to the gym, I really really fancied you."

"In fact so much so that, on my blog, I would type endless ramblings about plucking up the courage to ask you out and now here we are sitting together being très urbane."

I also stop myself from telling him that I write something as ridiculous as a blog.

It's funny how things change. From going to utterly fancying Liam I now look at him and think he's lovely but so not what I'd look for.

I wouldn't want to do him because it would feel hugely odd.

With some people you end up laughing uproariously, stopping halfway and getting dressed to have a cup of tea. Other people, who you think would be a little weird, turn out to be dirty bastards and then there are those who you just wouldn't.

Liam now falls into the last category. I think this category is also labelled "friend".

If I was ever going to shoplift in Sainsbury's I would confidentally walk into the shop, take what I wanted and walk out again, head held high.

This is what I feel like saying to the guy who's trying to nick a bag of McCain oven chips in the frozen food section.

There's no use constantly looking around, touching the frozen fish boxes and then getting irritated with me because I'm standing nearby buying milk.

The trick of effective thievery is confidence. I want to tell him that the only reason I noticed him was because he was behaving suspiciously.

I'm not for minute advocating stealing but for god's sake, if you're going to do it, at least do it correctly.

Take the bag and shove it into your rucksack. Stop picking it up, looking around and then walking ten yards to put it in the ice cream fridge.

It's so sad because he's probably someone's dad, too proud to ask his children for help.

And even when he's shoplifting, he's pretty crap at it.

I see, according to one newspaper, that the most shop-lifted items in Britain are frozen foods, coffee and cheese.

Packing my gym bag for the morning. The vest I supposedly used tonight still smells of fabric softener.






Hamster. Wheel.

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