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.
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.