(That's my impersonation of the annoying iPhone text message alert that sounds like a metal object hitting a glass table.)
Who the hell is texting me at 1am in the bloody morning?! Either someone's died or someone's on drugs.
I'm sorry but are you having a laugh?
"Hi Bobby. Maybe we should get together for some time. But thanx again, See you soon. Mark"
So what the hell do you make of that?!
Urr! urr! urr! urr! urr!
(That's my impersonation of the annoying iPhone alarm alert that sounds like a klaxon on heat.)
In the gym. You know what it's like.
And now, in a move that is becoming as traditional as stuffing at Christmas and the Brazilian gogoboy at Fire who insists he's straight but then ends up blowing half the punters in the second stall towards the back...
Here's our regular look at Le Ligne De La Centrale.
A picture of modern decorum and mass transport.
Meeting time which, as you know, means it's B-list time.
Meetings will never be the same again once you set tasks for yourself and the task for this meeting is to try and think up as many smutty words beginning with 'B' as possible.
Wow, great! Today's meeting has been far more productive than the 'A' meeting yesterday.
All we could think of then was words related to ass. Tomorrow it's 'C' and I can already think of a few...
Workey, workey, workey... woo woo.
Oh god will someone shoot me now (in a non lethal and painless way, preferably without a gun to make sure that I don't die.)
So here's more gossip about colleagues who you don't know but still, it's good value watercooler gossip.
So anyway this guy is called Ben and I first thought he was gay because I kept getting the eye but now it turns out that while him and his missus were away on holiday, she demanded a divorce.
It's never been disclosed why they got divorced.
We can all but assume....
Back on the Tube and we have two newspapers in which we have scribbled some notes in the hope that someone will spot them. Will they? Have they?
Maybe I'm being too cryptic.
Perhaps I just need to write something like "for fun, call..." or er... I don't know what I'm trying to prove with my experiment. I'll know when someone responds.
(I feel that this experiment is a bit like posting a letter without an address on it. I think I am going to have to spend 18 minutes at my drawing board considering these plans.)
And more gym
And can I have a whinge about something please? Actually it's more about someone.
I've been going to the gym I go to for years and after a while you start to chat to guys and you work out together and then you socialise together and so we've formed our own little gym Get-Along-Gang. It's sweet. Except for one member...
When the person who once wrote some blog called London Preppy came to visit our gym - dunno who he is, never met him (btw, call me) - we christened this member The Cruiser.
(You can read the experience here...)
And tonight it really got on my wick.
Whether it's in the gym or at the restaurant we were at last Friday or London Pride or sitting in Soho Square on Sunday, The Cruiser is on a mission.
His relentless cruising is like off the bloody scale.
Liam, him and I were having a chat about Brighton Pride and I had to stop myself from shouting "stop fucking staring over my shoulder at the blonde guy - it's fucking rude!"
Is it just me or is it actually very depressing to be around someone who's just on the pull relentlessly.
You can't actually talk to them because their eyes are just constantly darting around the room and as soon as they see someone they like, they're off, even if you're mid sentence.
I also think there are issues with guys who're trying to reel them in for around 23 hours and 59 minutes of the day. You must know someone like him?
We were in Rupert Street last week and The Cruiser's like "I'm just going to the loo" and he's gone for nearly 20 minutes.
Half of me is maybe a little jealous at his astronomical hit rate but the other half of me just thinks it's quite sad and draining to be around. And then there's the other half that just gets irritated because it seems he only goes out with us so that he has a group to join while his eyes dart around the room looking for someone else to try and pull.
It's really annoying and I think I am going to have to plot some sort of way from kicking him out of our Get-Along-Gang.
(This is so bitchy-girls-at-school, I know but I needed to vent. Thank you for your understanding.)
Leaving the gym.
Oh yes, here it is again... More Bloody Pictures of Sports Cars That Bobby Has Taken When All We Want Is Half-naked Men In Speedos.
Here we see a Bentley Continental. A pretty average Bentley sports car owned by about 94% of footballers but sill a goody. I would still not say no if one were to arrive on a flatbed truck outside my house.
Okay stop it.
Stop complaining like a spunk-guzzling homo on his knees in the middle of a Tokyo bukakke party who's just realised that all of the boys he's invited are infertile and are therefore firing more blanks than the starter's gun at the Beijing Olympics.
Here's your bloody underwear fix...
God you lot are predictable.
I'm going to cook my food for tomorrow and then go to bed. I would get you to join in but quite frankly, your far better off with a box of tissues and Cam4.