Wednesday, 28 October 2009

22:01
I promised you that we would have no mention of the gym whatsoever and you know me. A promise I make is a promise I keep.

So anyway, last night at the gym I crossed a dangerous threshold.

Katie and I had been out all afternoon - we had both had the afternoon off so we decided to have lunch. Which for Katie and I means a bottle of wine.

Now these days I am very very light on fuel which means one glass of wine goes a very long way.

And yesterday the sun was out and we were sitting along the canal in Islington.

Anyway, since one glass of wine for you is about 9 for me, you can imagine what I was like having had three glasses...

We decided to call it quits at around 7-ish and I stumbled to the gym to get my togbag and leave.

But Chris saw me in the changeroom. And Chris said "c'mon - don't be a lazy fucker... let's work!"

Well, it was the first and the last time I am ever working out while drunk. It was the strangest feeling in the world.

I was paranoid that it was obvious that I was drunk which is why I kept checking to see if, for example, I was wearing shorts. I was.

And there's another weird thing that happens when you're drunk in the gym. When you're drunk you think you have special super-duper powers when in fact you have none.

I couldn't even manage one pull up and all the lads were having a pull up competition.

Liam was there and he said that he could smell me.

Going back to the gym tonight I had The Fear. What if I was drunk and had said something inappropriate to a hottie?!

So Liam was there tonight and assured that I was fine. Except I stank of booze. And was a little wobbly. And came last in the pull up competition.

Which is pretty amazing because Mani was also in the pull-up competition.

Mani is a rugby player who has a rugby player's build. (Ahem!)

FYI: Mani is also a raging homo who recently came out the closet and he's like 36 and the reason it took so long is because he's Indian and apparently in Indian culture the gays aren't the most accepted thing.

So while it was okay that I didn't make a fool of myself generally, I did come last in the pull-up competition which is very embarrassing.

On the way out tonight Brent stopped me to ask if I was sober. How the hell did he know that I was drunk!?

Brent said he'd just had a complaint from a member who said they were furious that they had to share the change-room with a fat guy who used the towel like a fan-belt to dry his arse.

So it's not just me who takes offence at the men who do that. Although I wouldn't complain, I would just stew like most people do.

Except of course if I were drunk. Then I probably would have stumbled over and told the grubby fucker that I thought what he was doing was sick.

Luckily it was tonight, not last night.

Although I was pissed thanks to two beautiful bottles of Lourensford Sauvignon Blanc, a wine estate about 13 minutes' drive from my parents house.

Ohmygod. I am in South Africa in 63 days. Fuck.

22:22
Saturday is Halloween and I've been trying out costumes and looks etc. You like what I'm trying to create here?



Don't disrespect the look, baby...

Monday, 26 October 2009

22:09
Is it just me or...?

Or what? I don't know.

Jeez! Get in there, on a Friday night at the gym! I wasn't there this Friday but there were a few sheepish faces when I went in this morning.

Apparently the new thing is a social on a Friday where all the members get together at 8-ish and have a drink at the gym bar.

Brent who works at the reception tells me that five members of the admin team were hauled out of a cubicle upstairs by the janitor. And they weren't in there having sex.

(Come on, think. What do a group of people do in a toilet stall if they're not having sex?)

And Brent says two members of the public were caught having it off in the pilates studio which should have been locked.

So who's up for next Friday's social at the gym?!

It sounds like a bloody good idea because once you've got the booze to get everyone a little relaxed, they all start doing what they've been aching to do for eons.
i.e. bashing one out while lying on the bench press and doing rim-style pull-ups. Or something.

Speaking of such, Brent says a few days ago the poor female janitor caught Steve the maintenance guy (who is so seriously revolting you would hurl were I to describe what he looks like...)

Anyway the poor female janitor walked in on Steve lying on the couch in the staff room with his pants around his ankles knobbing one off to Lorraine Kelly on the TV!

Steve is so awful - did I tell you? Brent says that Steve basically steals all the clothes he wears from members who leave them lying around, lives in a hostel and spends all the money he earns on an annual trip to Amsterdam where he smokes weed and hires hookers.

And Brent's no fucking angel either.

There have been a few times I've pitched up early on a Monday morning for a pre-work run and Brent has been gurning like jelly on a plate.

But it's not just at our gym.

Nicky who works out at that gym in Covent Garden says in the old days they used to have a member of staff on BJ patrol because the members kept gobbing each other off in the sauna.

BJ patrol meant going every 5 minutes to walk past and peer in.

But back to ours...

Brent was also telling me about Jamal who used to work selling gym memberships.

Jamal was seriously hot, like a mixed-race muscle Arab boy who had no hair at all but huge chunky biceps.

Apparently Jamal got the sack because he would sell a gym membership to one person and then give all their mates free guest passes ad infinitum.

Brent says the management reckon that in the end Jamal must have handed out around 5,000 guest passes.

And why did no-one notice?

Because he would tell his clients when to come and work out, then go and stand at reception to collect their passes and hand the passes back to the punters on the way out so that they could use them again!

Oh - and one more thing. Pound coins work in the sun shower in the men's loo.

So don't bother paying £5 for five minutes, just drop a pound coin in the meter and it works for five minutes instead.

Brent says that some busy-body as told management about it but the cost to get the coin machine fixed doesn't outweigh the amount people are defrauding it by.

Oh yeah, and Annita, the lesbian behind the bar has been made redundant so is fairly miffed. If you ask her nicely she's slip you a free protein shake.

Which is probably what she was doing on Friday night. Except it wasn't protein shake it was Pinot Noir. Which is why everyone was so drunk and copping off in various corners.

I just hope on Friday nobody jizzed where I was doing press ups because at one point it hurt and I collapsed face first into the mat.

Walking out with dry and crusty two-day old spunk on the end of your nose is not a path to glory. Urgh!

Tomorrow there will be no more talk of the gym, I promise.

Monday, 19 October 09

05:50
I don't know what this time is but I am awake.

06:21
Oh, it's so bloody cold outside.

10:42
So how do cool kids hang out these days? Well, that's not something I ask myself but Amanda, who sits next to me, has been hanging out on Orkut.

Apparently Orkut is as big as Facebook in some parts of the planet.

It's one thing to stalk the personal trainer at the gym, it's quite another to rummage through personal profiles of people on the other side of the world. Which is what we're doing. Obviously.

Check. This. Out.

Meet Baba...

He lists his favourite cuisine as "sucking humans blood when I get mad."

I guess you don't want to make Baba mad then. Here he is hanging out in the garden...

Do you think they make endless jokes filled with innuendo about "shooting one off" etc?

Go and see more of Baba here.

I have to say that I prefer Faizan and I think you will like him too...

Faizan is a little odd, having videos of bodybuilding and the World Trade Centre disaster among his favourites.

Then, what do you think of er - I think it's Mirza...

He's into Pakistani Army Fighters, bodybuilding and others who have blood group Type-B.

Oh yeah, Mirza is the one on the right in black. His friend in the red is hotter though.

It's so weird to peek into the lives of people who live in an almost parallel universe to yours...

19:45
Does anyone have a cleaner I can have?

We have a new one, Christina, and ohmygod. When we left her a list of things she needs to do, I was tempted to put on the list "make sure you wear a fucking balaclava" because at least then it would be obvious that she was thieving us.

She charges £10 an hour for a minimum of three hours. Fuck!

She has to go.

19:56
She's gone.

20:09
Even though I swore that I wouldn't get into it, I have downloaded Alexandra Burke's new single and I am loving it, I'm sorry to say.

And ohmygod. Sally and I have got tickets to Whitney Houston for next April. It's so gay, it's so exciting.

21:18
Do you think it's weird that some people give things names? Like someone I know calls their laptop Zebedee. I think that's odd.

And others give their cars names. And their cocks.

I think people who do it are slightly unhinged. It's a car for god's sake.

Come to think of it, my grandparents used to call their vacuum cleaner Horace. Why, I cannot tell you?!

21:40
Yeah, I've just phoned Sally. She's in bed and I'm typing this on my bed.

She used to call her old car The Bitchmobile. Ho ho ho...

22:10
Oh god, I need to go to bed. I have to be up at 05:50 again. Fuck.

Tuesday, 13 October 09

09:26
Get out of bed.

Now come on, let's not be having any of those comments like "lucky I didn't wake up with a stiffy" etc.

Anyway. It's time for gym.

10:19
Gym.

11:26
Our Sally has texted because she went out for dinner with her fella last night and there was a commotion outside the restaurant.

It turns out that some blokes from a singing competition on ITV were having dinner at the eatery next door.

Do these two mean anything to you?

They were apparently chomping chicken at the Nando's up the road from us.

11:29
Now we're wondering if the house where these contestants are staying in, is in the area?!

Afterall, our suburb is a little mecca for shlebs you know.
This topic allows me to drop celebrity names like bombs over Dresden.

Stephen Fry lives around the corner. Literally. As does Emma Thompson. Except for Stephen you turn left, Emma you turn right. Ahem! Please note first-name basis...*

Imelda Staunton (slightly high-brow, I admit) is on the right, past the Tesco.

The only person's house who we can't find is (the legendary) Chaka Khan's.

So anyway. It becomes necessarily important for me to find out if we live near the X-Factor house. Right.

* = this is a slight fallacy in that I actually don't know either of them at all. Although if you have lunch at the splendishness that is J's (down from Nando's) there's a very good chance you'll bump into Ms Thompson.

12:04

It turns out we don't live near the X Factor house which is actually on West Heath Road in Golders Green.


View Larger Map

Amusingly though, when the Google Streetcars drove past some time ago, the house was still being built...


View Larger Map

Anyway. Enough of those people in that house.

15:14
Changing the names of films can be fun.

For example...

Mission: I'm bummable or what about er...
Gays of Thunder or say...

Top Bum? Golden Rain Man? Arse Wide Open? or my favourite Torn By The Girth Of A Guy

Ed: I think that's quite enough film titles for the moment...

15:17
I think this is turning into some cheap celebrity tittle-tattle mag. But is that a bad thing?

Oh come one, let's have one more...

What about Cock Tale?

Once again the fucking internet has crashed and I have lost everything I was in the middle of typing... and what the fuck is it with Macintosh fucking computers not auto-fucking-saving work. Fuck.

What was I saying?!

Um...

17:29
Oh yeah... after a long hard days' grafting is this really what you want to be stuck behind while changing at Bond Street tube station...



1...




er...


...22:27
God I've lost the will.

It's mainly because I am so fucking broke at the moment it's not funny. Like you were laughing anyway.

We get paid on Thursday and I have less than £1 to my name in coins. At the moment I am living like a shipwrecked person on a deserted island.

I make food from waste thrown out by the neighbours, I drink from discarded juice containers and when all of that is gone I eat the pets who live nearby.

I've taken to flogging old books, CDs and shoes to passers-by outside the Sainsbury's on Kilburn High Road.

If they ignore me I sing Paula Abdul.

Ooh na na na....
Ooh na na...
You're the whisper of a summer breeze
You're the kiss that puts my soul at ease...
What I'm saying is, I'm into you...

If none of that works then I get my knob out and do the fucking hokey-pokey.

I recycle the teabags and once all the tea has been squeezed out of them, I use the remnants as toothpaste. But I spit it out and it finally goes onto the manure heap.

After gym I eat the towel as a protein supplement. I'm thinking of getting married so I can collect the rice. I'm eating cereal with a bloody fork to save the milk.

When people come over for dinner nowadays, the best I can do is to read the recipes to them.

I have turned my underpants in and out so many times it's like I'm wearing origami.

I am so fucking poor at the moment that the banks are even threatening to repossess the cardboard box I sleep in. Fucking NatWest (again).

When burglars do come and disturb me, it's only to leave money. Even the fucking cockroaches have abandoned the place.

I'm having to use half-lit cigarette ends for heating.

I'm so fucking skint at the moment I can't even bother to put my two cents' worth into finishing this.

Yes, I am so goddam broke I can't even pay attention.

Sunday, 11 October 09

13:26
God, this story about this poor lad from the boyband who died while in Spain is just tragic really. Because literally, there by the grace of God go all of us.

Well, some of us at least.

I mean, as more details come to light so it just becomes more and more familiar. Not to me of course, I'm the fucking Virgin Mary but familiar from what I hear that friends get up to.

It's reported he went on a bit of a boozer with his fella, and you know what it's like, having a few jars in sunny España... things get a little fruity.

So it's no surprise that it now appears that there's interest in a 25 year old Eastern European bloke who "accompanied" the couple back to their apartment.

(18.51: Although this has now been clarified as "he was a friend who stayed overnight" and the police don't want to chat to him...)

Then you read that our poor lad was found, face down in some sort of "praying position", "like he was squatting" according to the papers.

And there by the grace of God go so many of us.

FYI
The Bun says he passed out and choked on his own puke and has the name of the Bulgarian who apparently went back to the flat to "party".
Some Majorcan rag says our lad was left on the couch as his fella and the Buglarian "retired to the bedroom."
The Times describes the squatting bit and says he was naked.
The Telegraph says our lad was in his PJs, not his birthday suit.
Everyone seems confused.

My opinion for what it's worth? The circumstances may be somewhat embarrassing which is why the situation seems to be as made as confusing as possible.

Remember how Elvis died? "The King passed away at his Graceland home in 1977 after being found unresponsive on the bathroom floor."

Read: He was on the loo, passed out and died in a pool of his own vomit.

Life sucks. And then you die.

Oh yeah, and my favourite line from the man on the Beeb: "Now of course one doesn't like to speculate in such tragic circumstances but do we have any idea..."

19:51
Do you want a story that's equally as grim but thankfully not as tragic?

Apologies if I've told you this before but... there was guy who I went to school with who was particularly photogenic.

He was at a party one night and passed out on the couch with a Scotch tumbler balancing on his chest.

He apparently moved and the glass slipped and fell onto the floor and smashed.

Trying to move, he too rolled off the couch and fell onto the floor with his face and eye landing into the jagged edge of the broken tumbler's base.

He now only has the sight in one eye.

That's what I mean by there by the grace of God go we, thank your lucky stars etc.

Thursday, 08 October 09

22:14
So we're watching some documentary about Peter Andre and

Oh shut up, listen...

So I am going to the gym this morning and I'm just leaving Finchley Road tube station and this woman standing outside the entrance says to me, "Jesus loves you..."

And I look at her and I'm like, 'no you silly bitch - Jesus is in love with Madonna at the moment. And besides, I didn't know he wasn't into blokes.'

I must have said something completely fucking alien to her because she just stood there with her eyes swivelling.

But like I really want to know that Madonna's fella fancies me? Just keep it to yourself will you dear...

This 'sharing' culture really annoys me. Like on Facebook people post stuff like "Johnny Arsewipe has just been to dinner at the Ivy."

What? You went to the Ivy because you couldn't be bothered to reheat the Sainsbury's instant mash potato pie that you seem to always scoff on, you fat twat?!

I'm thinkin maybe I should share a little more. Maybe I should stand outside Finchley Road tube station and stop punters and say "did you know that sometimes I'm a little partial to cock, actually."

"And is this your son Daniel? Hello Daniel, did you know that I love nothing more on a Thursday night than to go to bed with my hair all matted with spunk?"

You know, if we're going to start sharing all our fucking dirty habits then we might as well haul it all out the fucking cupboard.

But that's a lie though. I'm not partial to having the whipped cream near me. I mean I don't know, go and flick it on our Sally's curtains but don't bring it round here.

While I mention it, please will you spare a thought for our Sally at the moment. She's going through a rough patch.

And I don't mean that like she had a Brazilian a few weeks ago and is itching something chronic.

No, our Sally and her boyfriend have hit the skids a bit. She thinks he's a wimp.

And it turns out he's on anti-depressants too, I'm not joking. Apparently when men are on anti-depressants their er, range of fire, if you will - isn't what it should be.

Our Sally says that on Wednesday night he finally apologised and explained why, just when they were about to light the fuse to the fireworks, he went limp like a souffle in a cupboard.

And she says it's all the more depressing because he's equipped with an Exocet although at the moment it's performing like a Smith and Wesson firing blanks at the school swimming gala.

So anyway, I dodged Jesus's friend and made it to the bloody gym at around lunchtime which is a bit of a silly time to go because it's me and my heaving bench-presses and some woman lying on the ground strengthening her pelvic floor.

And our Chris wasn't even there to offer a quick spot. Or a squat.

Whatever.

It's Thursday evening and there's one day of the week left. Stop reading this and go to bed because that's what I am going to do.

It's nearly midnight which means that I am about to turn into a fucking pumpkin and since Peter Peter the Pumpkin Eater isn't around tonight, I might as well have a quiet one in.

And Liam sends his love.

Now fuck off.

Tuesday, 06 October 09

07:23
Or as Madonna would say; "I wanna hear you make some noise you mutherfucken pussies."

Liam and I are supposed to be running at the gym but obviously a dead badger on the train tracks has prevented Liam from appearing at the gym at this hour.

In fact, I am not thinking about that but am instead concentrating on the Offer Nissem remix that's blasting through the headphones.

[PAUSE]

On a point of order can I just say that our Sally, my housemate, has gone on a fucking winter bender. She's put the fucking heating up something chronic.

I mean it's not that cold outside but in here it's like sitting in some dodgy shag-house in Bermuda without airconditioning where some old ropey bird will give you hand-shank for a fiver.

I'm trying to type this but I'm fucking roasting.

But she's a good bird is our Sally. Do you know that she managed to pull a bloke in SuperMartXe on Saturday and will you note how I spelt that correctly.

Yeah it's true. There are apparently straight blokes who go although whether she actually pulled him or rather led him off to the loos and sucked the chrome off his tow-hitch in return for a line of Peruvian's finest isn't clear.

But I'll believe her when she said she had a snog and a fag with him out front.

Fag as in Lambert and Butler, not Lambert bonked the butler.

Oh but listen, later in the day at gym we saw our Liam.

He said he woke up and heard the rain beating down on the roof and felt like he was lying next to an inflatable pool at a piss night in some dodgy bar.

So he rolled over and went back to bed. Which is fine really because I'm not the kind of person to do cardio with.

I stick me earphones in and run as fast as laxative chocolate and a glass of milk. Why the fuck do you wanna talk to someone when you can barely fucking breathe?

Anyway, we see our Liam at the gym once we've finished work. We're doing shoulders.

And let me tell you - tonight at the gym, God was there. God is the man so bloody hot the earth fucking rotates around his pecs. Seriously, given half the chance, I would bang him like a barn door in a gale.

He comes over to talk to Liam and I which is a little embarrassing because I'm quite good at holding it all in but Liam turns the colour of a ripe fucking strawberry.

He wants to share diet tips and I think 'I'll give you something to fucking nosh on, mate...'

So Liam's going to e-mail our diet - or rather - the diet Chris gave us. And we're going to get to see what God eats. Supermarket trolleys and kittens I bet you.

Oh God, I don't know if I told you but our Chris has resigned from the gym. He leaves at the end of November.

It really is the end of an era because Chris is the King of Gym. Seriously - he fucking radiates inspiration and motivation.

And not only because it's a treat when a Men's Health cover model (runner up) comes over and suggests you pair off somewhere to do some squats.

Although I don't really like him in that way anyway. He's a friend. It's weird to think of friends in that way.

I mean you wouldn't go to the cinema to watch a fruity movie and lean over at the end and ask your friend to help you shuffle one out before the lights came up, would you?

So that's the gym and erm...

What the fuck was I talking about? Oh, I don't know.

Other stuff happened today but I can't remember what it is. Listen talk amongst yourselves, I'm fucking off to bed. Tomorrow we'll do less of the fucking talking in italics.