Bish bash bosh!
I think I'm taking too many pills.
In the morning with my protein shake (cappuccino flavour...) I have:
2 x 5HTP tablets (keeps up the sertonin levels)
2 x Milk thistle tablets (kind to the liver)
1 x Cod liver oil tablet (bones and stuff)
1 x multivitamin (all bases covered...)
(Okay, I admit that they're all herbal shit and not perscriptive so can't really do any damage if you OD and I pour my shake into a huge wine glass, so necking a handful of pills by slurping out of a wine glass does make me feel Judy Garland-esque)
I don't think I'm taking enough pills in the morning.
Mental note: Boots at lunch to find some more pointless herbal things in a bottle I can add to the morning bouquet.
Leaping lizards! There's someone on the Tube who has serious BO. Shall I take a picture?
Oh. iPhone battery flat. Well that's annoying.
How you imagine Bobz typing the Am Not Blog...
How the real Bobz looks while typing the Am Not Blog...
(Not really true either.)
In Westfield and...
[Screen cuts to reveal the Bobz typing his blog on his computer in the lounge of his house in North London.]
Oh come on - life isn't this interesting. Is yours on any given Tuesday?
I think I'm going to find the self-loathing box to open up and see what we can find.
My my my... what have we in here? Um, nothing. What the hell...
Ooh - what's this!?
So a long time ago I used to live in Ealing. From October 2003 to February 2004. God it was a shit-hole.
I mean, it was a nice house but I shared with his idiot called Paul. I'm pretty sure he's on Facebook but his name is pretty common so I cannot find him.
He was the manager of a Caffe Nero at Heathrow airport.
It was this two-bedroom house and sometimes Paul's boyfriend would stay over and Paul had a cat which he treated like shit.
I wasn't earning nearly enough to live properly and so resorted to drinking.
(Ohmygod box tick - we're talking about drinking...)
But not only that. It was a shitty room and Paul never paid any of the council tax and one day, while I was sitting in my pyjamas and Paul was at work, a bailff came around to collect all his belongings. I left that night and moved in with friends.
I lived in Ealing because it was near work.
The nearest bar was West Five and one night I left with this guy and we got back to his house.
He suggested undressing as he went to the bathroom. I got the freaks and darted for it. I dunno what happened when he came out of the bathroom to find no-one there!
(Sorry whoever you were...)
That also happened a few years ago. I was living in the North Londons and met a guy on that social-networking site for homos in search of transient short-term relationships.
He looked nothing like his pictures shock! Well he did sort of, if it was about 10 years ago and 238 McDonald's burgers earlier.
I arrive at his flat in Earl's Court and after a time (like about 97 seconds) he moves in and starts kissing me, you know... and I am like "ohmygod how am I going to get out of this...?" I can feel he's really keen.
I give dead fish kiss. Not helping.
But thankfully, thankfully he stops and says that before we go any further he quickly needs the bathroom.
He goes to the bathroom and luckily all I had to do was pull my T-shirt down.
Like the bullet from a silencer I was out of the front door!
When I got back home (2007 was like the stone age - none of the Dar on an iPhone - a what?!) I sent him a message. The oppressive nature of the Piccadilly Line made me feel a little bad.
I think I wrote something like "I'm really sorry but my great aunt Ethel just died and I could feel her presence moving about the room as your luscious
(* = the last bit is editorial laissez-faire)
He never responded which is fair enough.
After I turned 30 that weirdo valve wore out. Interactions is a transactions. If you don't want to do business with someone you say so. "Sorry mate it's not going to work."
Of course you can only do that if you make your way to theirs. Slamming front doors in peoples' faces is a little rude.
Oh fuck-sakes, who am I kidding?
You're like an annoying kid around the cookie jar who has to listen to gramps' stories before we can get his hands on what he really wants.
Here's your fucking daily fix of gravy. Tasty...
It's nearly 11pm and I am going to bed. Talk amongst yourselves and if there are two of you, be a dear and lend a hand too.
Ohmygod, did someone notice that it was the 1st of September already. How the fuck did that happen!?