Monday, 28 September 09

NINETY THREE
08:14
Jesus Christ.

Or rather Jeezy Kreezy. It's Monday morning and what the fuck?!

Today is no gym so we're not too stressed. God it's weird to get up in the morning and go straight to work. Feels odd.

10:53
We're trying to clear something up.

You know the wankey books that people like Picasso spunked all over? Is the name pronounced "Mole-skin" or "Molluskeenah"? We're veering towards the latter.

b11:06
Wikipedia says "mol-a-skeena". So that's settled then.

14:28
More bloody choices.

Right. There is a serious one to be made and you can help make the decision.

There are some little quaint oddities about South Africa.

For example, in South Africa everyone is free and the chattering classes love to drone on about how all citizens in "The Rainbow Nation" are beautiful, equal and special.
Despite that, South Africans have a bizarre obsession with beauty pageants.

Everyone is equal and special except for beauty pageant winners. They're just a little more special and equal than everyone else.

Like Miss South Africa who is a national celebrity. Someone who is lauded at shopping centres, kisses babies and raises the sick, the lame and the downright bone-bloody-idle.

And what's good for Miss South Africa is good for Mr South Africa too...

Meet Clayton.

Clayton is a finalist in the Mr South Africa competition.

As is customary, it is important for Mr South Africa to be beautiful on the inside and the outside.

On the inside, how beautiful is this? "What we need to realize as a nation is that our communities in general are extension s of our homes, and that in order to see the positivity we seek in our own lives, we need to become actively involved in painting over the cracks where necessary."

(Plastering not painting, surely?!)

Anyway, more important though is what Clayton looks like half naked...

You like?

No, no... don't feel upset. There is no reason to feel left out because the gays have it covered to.

Yes, there's also Mr Gay SA.

And don't panic because I have it whittled down. You can plough through the finalists if you want here but I have found the two most likely to win...

Charl on the left or Chris on the right. So who'd you pick?

I am going to go with the one on the left. Simply because - what the hell is that Armani belt all about on the right?

So, let's just get straight (haha) down to it. Which of them would you like to bang like a barn door in a gale (because what's it's all about basically...)

Answers on the back of a toilet door somewhere.

16:29
Eating a salad from Tossed. It's yum. Except for the fact that all the people who work at Tossed (they do salads - see what they've done?!)

Anyway, all the people who work at Tossed wear pink T-shirts that say "I'm a tosser" on the back.

Har har.

17:04
We're doing... stuff


about....


um...


Oh god, listen. Let's talk amongst ourselves. It's Monday night. There's an entire fucking week to get though.





21:35
Holy shit, it's nearly October. I just realised that.

And Michael Jackson's still dead.

Sunday, 27 September 2009

NINETY FOUR
21:06
I've been all over the place and not physically.

It's a consequence of living on two continents. London is my home but Cape Town is my playground.

A home is where your life is, a playground is where your heart is. A playground is not somewhere that you could live.

It's Sunday night, it's slightly warm outside but we're inside watching X-Factor.

One week ago...

Last Sunday night I spent with Avie and Alex. It was so special.

Tomorrow they have a life to live. I have one too. And mine is in London. Theirs is in Cape Town.

There is a moment when you go 'ohmygod, is this my life?' A moment when you ask 'shit, is this my home?' But the sad and difficult truth is that London is my home.

When I got onto the Tube last Tuesday morning, after arriving from Johannesburg the woman said "the next stop is Finchley Road, please mind the gap between the train and the platform". I felt like I was home. I felt a sense of belonging.

But this is leaving Cape Town...

Heading southward we took off and headed over False Bay banking left and then pointed north to Johannesburg over Somerset West.

Here we are, coming in to land at Johannesburg...

Yeah, I'm being sentimental.

It's so difficult not knowing where your heart is. Or rather, it's so shit to realise that your head and your heart are not in the place where you'd like them to be.

Okay.

Tomorrow there's no more of this mawkish crap. To be honest, I find it difficult to type.

The sad truth is that in around 93 days I am flying back to Cape Town for the summer and New Year.

Maybe some changes need to be made. Maybe I need to pull myself together. I don't know.

Will you join me tomorrow for a fresh start?

No drinking. No smoking. No bad behaviour.
All pretend happiness.
All make-believe peace.

Please. Tomorrow will you, with me, pretend that my life is normal? Will you treat me as one of your own?

Tomorrow is beautiful. It is a new day. Can we call it quits until tomorrow?

(The pathetic thing is that I have nothing more to type because I can't say the words.)

Friday, 25 September 09

00:23
If you were to guess the kind of day, you wouldn't ask!
And you wouldn't have needed to have asked because you would have guessed.

00:35
I have a new ambition.

This to add to my ambition to be:
an Olympic Swimmer
a Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer
an underwear model.

My new ambition is to be a concert pianist and play the third movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata no. 14. Yes, that dreaded piece.

Everyone murders the first movement (to death) but the third is completely fucking radical. Check out this birdy in the red dress really give it a fucking hammering.

She hands it such bloody stick that there are even a few duff notes*.
* = ropey left hand at 0:53, holds the sustain pedal for slightly too long at 1:14 and the wrong finger on the wrong key at 4:02.

Watch at around 4'37, the poor woman convulses in a semi-bloody-orgasm, lifting about two inches off the stool. Get her!

Does anyone have a Steinway I could borrow?

I reckon it's easy - the left hand does some weirdo-style Alberti bass and the right hand is just doing arpeggios in C# minor. How hard can it be?

00:42
I am going to practice my hand technique in bed. Tomorrow is going to be a beautiful day, I can feel it!

Wednesday, 23 September 09

08:35
It's that time. Time to wake up and face the world with a smile.

Of course you know every well that the only thing I wear is a grin from ear to ear*.
* = file under "Bullshit".

12:10
In exactly 98 days' time I will be on a Boeing that is about to touch down in Cape Town. This makes me very excited.

14:18
Everyone in the office is going potty over British Military Fitness.

Of course I just yawn because, as you know, I've been involved in paramilitary organisations for years.

More importantly, the reason everyone's going potty over British Military Fitness or BMI (to those in the know) is because of Jonny.

'And who the fuck is Jonny', I hear you ask?

Here...

So now whose up for a little PT?!

Here's what we know about Jonny:
1/ He was scouted while dancing in a club in San Francisco.
2/ He's posed in DNA magazine #113

So come on, own up. One of you fuckers must know this kid. Who is he and how did he get such a.m.a.z.i.n.g. guns?

You know the drill; foxycoxy AT me.com

All correspondence will be treated confidentially. Until I paste it all over the internet that is.

16:23
Do you ever have that moment where you log into your bank account and go "oh shit"? Right now, I'm having that moment.

20:28
Making lists.

Monday My Way

19:16
And now, the end is near...

And so I face, my final curtain. Or rather; and now I face the boarding gate. Which doesn't really rhyme.

But I am in Johannesburg International Airport having a glass of champagne. And some odd-tasting dim sum.

And the last ten days are all over. In short, they would go something like this...

19,342 kms travelled
527 rand thrown at willing barmen
223 hellos
73 glasses of wine
49 cigarettes
42 sambucas
39 pieces of sushi
12 chocolate tequilas
7 courses at Hidden Valley
5 people whose name I've forgotten (ahem)
4 nights at Victoria Junction
3 hours' sleep last weekend
2 Freemasons remixes
1 Lamborghini Murcielago

Or rather. If I could sum up this holiday in one picture it would be...

If you talk nice, maybe there are a lot more where that came from.

He is my new future ex-husband but there are a few problems to overcome first.

He is straight.
He has a girlfriend.

But these are not insurmountable problems. They're setbacks. Admittedly they're pretty large and long-term setbacks but...
... as Dubya once said; "with every catastrophe I see an opportunity."

That's enough Cape Town. It's time to head to London.

Friday night recap

17:05
Having a thinking re-cap about the night before.

So at a bar for the homo-les-bi-gay community there is a guy who is rather sober because he's had a day off the booze. This is a guy on holiday from London but formally of the parish of Cape Town.

Said guy is talking to a rather well-oiled young gentleman. The young gentleman is rather striking and incredibly good looking.

And here begins thus conversation:

London tourist (LT): "I don't usually do this - I mean I don't smoke but do you mind if...?"

Young gentleman (YG): (Getting out a cigarette) "Haha dude - sure - as you were walking towards me I could see you were going to ask for one. But I don't have a lighter..."

LT: "No problem I'll find one."
YG: "Ya, I need a light if you do too, sorry..."
LT: "Cool"

(LT borrows a lighter from one of the lesbians in close proximity)

YG: "Dude - just so that you know, I'm straight hey...."
LT: "I asked you for a cigarette, I didn't ask you to suck my cock."
YG: "Haha... it's just you don't seem like 'queeny' so I wasn't sure."
LT: "Mate, fucken don't assume shit. But if you're not gay then what the hell are you doing here?"
YG: "Ya, it was one of my friend's birthdays."

Discussion about Young Gentleman's lesbian friend inevitably leads onto the sort of questions these type of people ask...

YG: "So can I ask how long have you been gay?"
LT: "Mate, I've been dressing up in women's clothing and sticking my hand down the coaches' pants since I can remember."
YG: "Haha (he's laughing nervously, not knowing whether this is a careful play on a stereotype or an admission)

LT: "It sounds like you're slightly scared of gay guys..."
YG: "Well no dude - I used to work in the fashion industry so I'm okay with gays. Like everyone was gay so fuck you know, you can hate."

And the conversation turns to what Young Gentleman did in the fashion industry. We learn that he was a model. He is now 28. In 2002 he won a South African modelling competition. Part of the process meant wearing a Speedo. We are shown Young Gentleman's stomach as he seems eager to show it. It is still pretty good. Pretty good.
Pretty pretty pretty pretty good.

LT: "That's pretty good. Pretty pretty good."
YG: "Ya, but it used to be better I promise you."

We sense that Young Gentleman has a need to impress. We like the impressionable. Lion meets Wildebeest.

LT: "Mate - no offence but have you ever done anything gay because I have heard about fashion and shit.
YG: "Dude no way. It's all queeny, like fat fuckers with tape measures so even if there was it's like no fucking way."
LT: "Listen, we're both men of the world. Okay? So can I ask you - can we strike a deal?"
YG: "What?"
LT: "Let's strike a deal. I get to kiss you and in return, if any other homo ever asks you again, you can say you've tried it and it wasn't your scene."

YG: (Laughs very loudly, an "everyone look at me" laugh)
LT: "Mate, this is a serious deal. We both get what we want. Look at the fucking talent around us. There's none. So I get a kick hook-up with a hot guy and you get life experience."
YG: "What?"
LT: "The homos will never bother you again. All these gay fuckers - they just want everyone to at least try. That's what they see when they see straight men like you. If you say "I've tried it, it's not my thing" then they will leave you alone. They'll respect you.
It's like the mafia these days, it's all about respect. Like Goodfellas. Just me, it's respect."

YG: "So you just wanna kiss me and I don't have to kiss you back."
LT: "No, no... in return - you get to be able to tell all these gays that you've tried it and you don't like it. It's life experience."

YG: "What, so like now?"
LT: "Not at the fucking bar, do you think I want these people to see me kissing you?"
YG: "No well..."
LT: "So around the corner, outside."
YG: "Shit man...'' (There is a pause. He is either going to punch me in the face or...)
YG: "As long as I don't have to kiss you back."
LT: "Mate, when last did you brush your teeth?"
YG: "What?"
LT: "I'm ordering sambuca because I don't want your bad taste in my mouth"
YG: "Ya - but for when we get back."
LT: "What?"
YG: "For afterwards..."
LT: "Deal..."

So LT and YG leave the bar. And walk through the car park. Towards a tree. It is dark except for the light from the street lamp. They find a spot between the tree and a high wall.

YG: (Quietly) "So for how long is this going to last?"
LT: "Shhh... All you have to do is put your lips on mine. Like ...."

YG is unsure at first but tongue appears. And LT slowly puts his hand up YG's shirt, onto his muscled stomach.
And LT puts his other arm around YG's shoulders.

In light from the street lamp they kiss. And kiss. LT opens his eyes. YG's remain shut.

A good time later back in the later

LT: "So mate - we need that shot now. I need to get the taste from my mouth."
YG: "Ya - tequila? But what taste?"
LT: "Mate the taste. The taste of enjoyment. Tequila is shit for it. I'll have sambuca."
YG: (Said so quickly that there was no way that any thought went into what was being said) "Okay maybe I'll have sambuca too."

Never ever has a Freudian slip sounded so beautiful, uplifting, heartbreaking and painful.

Somewhere out there there's a man for Gavin. He doesn't know it himself yet. And the man who is going to spend the rest of his days with Gavin doesn't know it either.

It's not me because on Monday I get on a plane back to London. I didn't bother to take his number.

But also, somewhere out there there's a Gavin waiting for me too.

I hope that tonight Gavin's looking up to the stars, as I am...

Somewhere out there
Beneath the pale moon light
Someone's thinking of me
And loving me tonight.

Somewhere out there
Someone's singing a prayer
That we'll find one another
In that big somewhere out there.

And even though I know
How very far apart we are.
It helps to think we might be wishing
On the same bright star

And when the night wind
Starts to sing a lonesome lullaby
It helps to think we're sleeping
Underneath the same big sky...

Tuesday, 15 Sept 09

08:30
Right. The curtain comes down on the Self Pity Show - and what a performance it was yesterday.

And Pretentious Hour* also ends. Listen to what you like.

(I did think we were going to insist that it wasn't pretentious but then again, what's the point of being consistent. Consistency suggests rational and considered thought. Fuck that.)

08:33
Um. So. Er.

22:22
I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE IT. I HAVE JUST SAT AND TYPED THE LONGEST FUCKING POST ABOUT WHAT I GOT UP TO AND THE FUCKING INTERNET CONNECTION DROPPED AND THE ENTIRE POST WITH PICTURES HAS NOW FUCKING DISAPPEARED.

FUCKING INTERNET CONNECTION FUCK YOU FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I am struggling to contain my anger at this point. It's seriously bad.

22:39
I am going to try and retype everything tomorrow and repost the pictures which included the likes of...





I don't know if you can feel the heat that's eminating off the keyboard right now? My anger is being distilled. Like brandy in a brass tank.

23:11
I have made a few new resolutions.

I made them last night after my little pretentious self-loathing moment and I want to start them now so that I can try (repeat) try and carry them into the new year.

The resolutions are that every day I must have:

1/ Spent at least 30 minutes reading something of substance (i.e. not a magazine or the news)
2/ Spent at least 30 minutes listening to traditional western "classical" music

I figure that by doing these two simple tasks, my brain capacity will be restored by years of withering thanks to alcohol.

23:29
Do you know what I've been trying to do for the last 10 minutes? Do you have any idea?

The bar next to the lounge is locked. I cannot find the key.
The wine cellar downstairs next to the garage is locked. I cannot find the key.
Even the bar out in the pool-house in the garden is locked and the key is not to be found.

I wanted to sip on a glass of wine while taking in my daily dose of the classics. At least the one will cancel the other out.

My parents have locked up every stash of booze in this fucking house.

The only thing I could find is a bottle of 2004 Rust en Vrede Shiraz in my dad's study cabinet which usually retails on - the er, auction market. It's not commercially available.

If my parents want to store all the booze in the house in near fucking Fort Knox conditions, they should accept the consequences...

Oh god. It's beautiful.

It's structured and big. It tastes of chocolate and smells of tobacco and when you taste it, it bursts in your mouth.

23:50
The wine and the third movement of Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto no. 2 in C minor is like the marrying of heaven and earth.

Earth from the vines that produced the wine and heaven from the music produced by Rachmaninov (deceased).

Hours and hours and lives' work have gone into producing this shit and here I sit back and slurp on it all.

23:51
No seriously.
I am about to tuck into a rare bottle of Rust en Vrede and listen to Rachmaninov played by Vladimir Ashkenasy conducted by Andre Previn. This is a moment as cataclysmic as when Dylan went electric.

23:54
There's only one thing missing and that's there is no-one here to enjoy it with me. Seriously.

You up for a holiday to Cape Town in December?

Monday

11:29
By the end of today we're having a confessional. Fuck.

21:47
we were going to have Monday confessional but it's not that worth it. I got drunk. I did what people do when they're drunk.

Profess undying love to someone, kiss another person and make friends with a homeless person.

22:27
It's odd when you have the night at your parents home with nothing to do.

You start to go through old boxes of stuff. Stuff from so many years ago.

Fuck.

Memories are so painful. They're shit.

People who insist that they will have no regrets in life usually say it as some sort of verbal insurance policy because they know that later on they will come to regret whatever it is they said they wouldn't.

I know this because when I look back through old diaries and books, journals and notepads; regret just seems to fill every page.

I wish I'd studied harder at University.
I wish I'd not behaved the way I had in some circumstances.

I really wish I knew then what I know now.
I wish I'd listened.

But what can you do? Feeling regret at the past is so awful because you cannot change it and you cannot undo it.

You can just hope that you won't make the same mistakes again. But life is cruel which is why you do make the same mistakes again.

I wish I hadn't been such a shit to some people. I wish I hadn't let other people get to me like they did.

I wish that sometimes I'd followed my instinct. I wish that on other occasions I wasn't so impulsive.

The problem with life is that it gets in the way. I have spent too much time letting things get in the way.

You page through old diaries and read entries like "meet C for drink at 18.30".

"C" was my first boyfriend. But for my own sake he was called "C" incase my parents should page through my diary.

When "C" and I first met I didn't have loved ones to share the experience with because no-one knew.

Sure, friends would know but I would spend the day out with "C", get home and lie to my parents about what I had been doing when I was eager to tell them of this lovely guy I'd met.

Having my sister around was difficult too.

We haven't spoken since March.

Whereas I seem to saddle myself under the weight of regret, my sister has managed to lodge herself under the burden of years of resentment about me. She is three years younger.

Some of her greatest hits have included, at lunch the last time we spoke, she proclaimed, "I just want to say that my life was really great when Bobby wasn't around."

Or another gem one evening over dinner.

Me, my sister and my mum and dad. After a long pause in the conversation, where we were probably discussing the weather, she declared, "I mean it's pretty obvious that Bobby is gay so I dunno why you two are pretending to think otherwise."

To my dad, gay men are poofs so you can imagine how her remark was as welcome as a bucket of cold sick.

Everyone carried on eating as if nothing had happened. It was slightly ridiculous.

That was in the past and everyone knows now.

I mention my sister and what happened because it helps to understand why he was simply called "C".

So it's funny when you're sitting on your bedroom floor at home, going through old things and your mum pokes her head around the door and asks if eveything is okay.

"Yeah, it's funny to look through all this old stuff..."

And if you were to look you would see someone sitting on the floor paging through old books. Which is probably what my parents see.

What I experience is looking back over years old heartache and regret and difficulties, wonderful times, smiles and happiness.

And that seems to be so difficult. The two people who should have shared in a lot of what's happened in my life, don't have a clue.

22:47
Do you mind if I change the subject for a moment and extol the virtues of classical music?

I have found a CD boxset of Rachmaninov which I know is a little pretentious-sounding but screw it.

I think people who say it's pretentious to listen to classical music, haven't listened to any themselves.

You can either listen to it and appreciate the sound of it as it is - and that's fine - or you can delve a little deeper and read further about the context of the music and find different ways to enjoy it.

I love late romantic Russian stuff; like Rachmaninov, Prokofiev, Scriabin and Shostakovich.

I think it's because it is what it is. It's music that is music onto which you project whatever you like.

So there, it's cultural corner over here. Get in...

23:31
I'm tired and going to bed.

Sunday night

22:55
I want to tell you about something I've done. It's a little bad.

We arrived at the club early because we'd been drinking all day. This is Alex and me. Upstairs the dance floor had been hired out for a school prom afterparty.

At midnight it was all scheduled to end.

Me and Alex were stood outside and bored so we decided to chat to the young kids. They were mainly 16 or 17 years old.

We actually didn't chat to the young kids, we hunted out the potentially hot guys.

And like two lecherous bastards, Alex would start talking to them and then I would ask how old they were.

If they were underage I gave them money and told them that, under no circumstances, were they to spend the cash on anything other than alcohol.

I don't think it's right to be handing out money to children and insisting they use it to get drunk.

But then I think back to when I was young.

Imagine, you're out in the Big World on a Saturday night. What's the best thing that could ever happen?

Exactly. Some guy hands you money to buy alcohol.

That's why I sometimes find young people painful to be around. It reminds me of all the things that were wrong when I was young.

If only I was lucky enough to have some old fucker hand me a wad of cash to spend on booze.

But giving money to childen and insisting they get pissed is a little bad, I admit.

Yey, yey, it's Friday...

08:43
You don't wake up in upper middle class neighbourhoods in South Africa. You get woken up.
It's usually the rottweiler next door barking at the postman.

Dogs in upper middle class neighbourhoods in South Africa bark at postmen because invariably they're not white.

The binmen get barked at too but the man from the Jehovah's Witness, who's usually called Keith, doesn't get barked it when he rings the buzzer clutching his magazines.

And people who have animals that bark at black people also tend to start their sentences with "I'm not racist but..."

So I have been woken by the rottweiler next door who's barking.

I must remember to find out what it's name is.
Insular white South Africans don't have much of a sense of humour so I'm guessing it's not called Bubbles.

11:23
In South Africa, as in Cape Town, there are a lot of people who do crime. As one would do the Friday crossword in The Guardian, I suppose.

Except that people in Cape Town do crime every day, not just on a Friday.

In fact, and in the spirit of our ridiculous analogy, there are a lot of people doing a lot of crosswords. Which is why everyone is making a concerted effort to prevent crosswords from being completed.

Like, if you're being tied up and robbed you can text the local radio station to let them know.

Presumably this means they will send the police but surely it would have been easier just to ring the police in the first place?

Or perhaps it's because the radio station wants to play you a dedication.

"And here's one for a Mrs Smidge of Arthur Crescent who's just text us to say she's been banged on the head with a chair by a man in a balaclava. Yes, it's a Ol' Blue Eyes with 'Ring-A-Ding-Ding'... Enjoy!"

And it's not just about letting your radio station know.

You also have to email the organiser of the CrimeWatch Club so that he can type a weekly newsletter to residents and neighbours, warning of them danger*.

* = Seriously.

Like this advice: "Alarms are being set of by the criminals over and over again. The owner then thinks the alarm is faulty and puts it off. Surprise, surprise for you the next morning - you had a visitor."

I feel safer already.

Thursday, 10 09 09

08:22
Somehow we've ended up here. Sitting on a metal bench in a quiet area of OR Tambo. Also known as Johannesburg International. It's "oh ar" as opposed to "or".

Something weird must have happened over Mauritania or the Cote d'Ivoire because I can't feel like right hand. Is that bad? It's numb.

It's great for a wank but...

Have you been here? No? Well I'll tell you.

At Johannesburg International ("oh ar" not "or") there is a Wimpy, a pub with a hundred TVs showing sports channels and a man with a fauxhawk and a mullet who is wearing shorts. Very short shorts.

But it's not like that. Think of Gordon Brown (the president of Englandland) with a fauxhawk, mullet and wearing shorts. Yes, it's like that.

08:29
Sat on this metal bench isn't just me. There is another man two seats down who is on the phone. It would be polite to listen to what he's saying. Obviously.

And he's saying:

"Ya, just copy me in..."
"Look, if I don't get to the bloody office today I'll be there tomorrow but as far as I'm concerned he can swivel." (I don't think this is good...)
"I promise it will be okay."
"Hundred percent" (This is a South Africanism meaning "definitely". Except you say "hunid" instead of "hundred")

Whoops - he's put the phone down. And that means the dictate any more.

08:35
Ooh! His phone's ringing. It's the Nokia. ring. Like who the fuck still has the Nokia ringtone?

Oh shit - I am supposed to be sitting on an airplane. The gate shuts in 15 minutes.

Must run!

15:15
Right, so you're not going to believe this but...

On the plane I got sat next to someone from my old life. Someone from my bad old days.

She looked at me as I sat down next to her and exclaimed "you're not pissed are you?" I love her.

For all my self-loathing and "must not drink" bluster, it is maybe a little refreshing to board an aircraft and have your reputation dragged in behind you.

Um...15:20
This is very boring but here's what we have in the photo album already...

Above is the view from the Virgin plane towards another one. And then there's Bubbles...

And finally, some people loading food into the butt of this Japan airlines plane...

I'm a loser because I love flying.

There's something about flying in an airplane that is wonderfully intangible but it's something I love.

I think it's the surrender of human to the machine. That, for 12 hours you're about 3 inches from death, glossed over by the phrase "chicken or beef?"

I know, airplanes are so boring.

21:01
I'm exhausted. Would you mind if I were to go to bed?

Wednesday, 09 09 09

07:45
This is how I know that I live in Groundhog Day*.
(* = as in the film. Not as in that weird Hollywood leading man-stylee habit of a small furry animal and a hole)

In the mornings I see the same two people on the Tube; a cute German-looking blonde guy and the big mess of muscle.
Pictures will follow.

When I get off the Tube the same man is stood outside the Tube station selling the Big Issue and everyday says the same thing; "you boy wanna buy Big Issue?"

I look up into the sky and see a Boeing 747 heading to land at Heathrow. It is a Qantas jet.

For those with a curious mind, the flight is QF31 from Kingsford Smith that stopped off on the way in Singapore for a while.
I'm all into air travel at the moment...

10:02
Ohmygod. I have a tip for you...

If you're in an office meeting that you don't want to be in, take your cell or mobile in with you and then ring a phone just adjacent to the meeting door and as soon as it makes a rings, leave the meeting room and offer to answer it.

After the meeting has ended say "god, the person on the other end didn't half drone about stuff that I don't remember what it was..."

And hey presto! you've got out of the rest of the meeting.

12:02
My phone rings. "Hey, did you see the e-mail I sent you about my status update on Facebook?"

Er, no you freak. Piss off.

17:27
So I'm sitting in the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse. And I thought about it and I decided that it wasn't going to be thatoften that I was sat here so I opted for some champagne.

Like 9 glasses of champagne are hardly going to kill me, are they...?!

18:20
I am going to close the laptop and sit back for a while to reflect.

There are pictures being taken, there are words being saved. Would I ever let you miss a trick?

For the moment though, I think some quiet time for reflection is called for.

(This is colloquially known as er - I'm going for a snooze and when I stir it will be time to board the plane which means I am going to have to turn the laptop off because there is no reception etc.)

See you in South Africa.

18:51
I'll drink to that.

Tuesday, 08 Sept 09

04:49
I'm awake a minute before the alarm clock goes off.

05:10
Protein shake (cappuccino flavour) and soya milk. It is cold and sweet.

05:19
Like shut the fuck up already.

I mean, part of me does care that the driver's bought a house in Mill Hill Broadway and that his wife works for someone who's just spent a million-plus on theirs in Westminster and - but mate, it's 20-past five in the morning.
Hush my beauty. Hush and drive.

05:24
And drive he did because we're now at work and sitting at our desk. For this is where we shall commit ourself today.

...
And what the hell was that all about?!

21:24
I'm sitting outside polishing a pair of shoes. Or not polishing them. Smearing show Tippex onto them - you know the stuff that you paint onto slightly faded white shoes to make them look unnaturally clean?

That and my little list of things to do.

In around 24 hours' time I shall be somewhere over France heading towards Johannesburg. Everyone gets those pre-flight nerves. They're like pre-clubbing anxiety - you know the feeling, when you get nervous and uneasy for no apparent reason.

I think in both cases it stems from the fear that death could be imminent.

Death as in the aircraft falls out of the sky or death as in you die a death on the dancefloor because someone has a better body than yours.

21:25
I think I'm fully packed. The only thing I don't have is er - we were laughing in the office today at the euphemisms for poppers.

No, I'm not packing poppers. I don't even own a bottle.

I'm just kidding I do.
No I don't.

Yes.
No.

Anyway. (I don't) So we were laughing at work about (I do...) what people call poppers.

(No seriously, I don't...)

Like "room odorizer" and "personal aromas" or "personal incense." Like who the fuck ever opens a bottle of "room odorizer" before guests come around for a dinner party.

"What the fuck, have you been painting your nails?"
"Jeez, that Glade airspray is really fucking strong."
"What the fuck is that smell? Fruits of the Anus or something?"
etc.

21:37
Not that I am mildly obsessive of anything but it was exactly 80 days ago that I was packing to head to Cape Town. Symmetry in time and space is so important.

Check - going out clothes (American Apparel, Energie, Issey Miyake)
Check - smartish clothes (Versace, DKNY shirts)
Check - normal T-shirty clothes (H&M, H&M, H&M, H&M, H&M, H&M, H&M, H&M, H&M)
Check - shoes (three pairs, 2 x Nike and Prada)
Check - underwear (boring and sensible black Debenhams jockey-style underwear that is just black)
Check - passports (UK & RSA)
Check - Booking ref
Check - laptop
Check - laptop lead
Check - socks
Check - phone (iPhone with a big crack, not of the bum variety)
Check - locks for suitcase (must remember to put them back on sling afterwards*)
Check - electric toothbrush
Check - coats (Nicole Fahri and Armani)
Check - gym kit + swimming gear
Check - jerseys (Armani)
Check - um... iPhone / iPod charge leads
Check - er - I think I have it all.

Can you think of anything glaring that I'm missing?
* = I don't have a sling. Well not one that is permanently installed anyway.

22:02
"Hello Junior - are you there? This is Madonna. Call me in Miami."

22:04
Oh god, speaking of embarrassing incidents...

If you have an iPhone and GarageBand do you know that you can make bespoke rings for your iPhone using songs in your iTunes?
(Apologies that this is so Maccy. Complaints to: foxycoxy AT me.com - my Mac address. HA!)

Anyway. So, like for one guy I know - who is rather rotund - his ringtone is a song that that weird man-eating plant sings in Little Shop of Horrors.

I know it's him whenever he rings because the phone starts yelling "feed me... feed me Seymour... feed me aaaalll night long!"

Of course you have these at your peril although thankfully no-one who has a disparaging personalised ringtone has realised this because they haven't phoned my phone while in the same room. Yet.

Carly Simon's "Your So Vain" features (he really is), as does the ringtone for Sally, my housemate.

When Sally phones, it rings "she's a naughty girl with a bad habit - bad habit for drugs." etc.

I don't know why I thought it would be cool but I decided to use some Missy Elliot lyrics to make a ringtone. I did it as a bit of a joke and just never bothered to actually use the ringtone, because I'm not sure where I would be where it would be appropriate.

Anyway, as you know I have cracked the face of my iPhone which is slightly annoying.

It also means that the phone gives me electric shocks and sometimes does some bizarre things.

Like how the hell did that bloody Missy Elliot ring end up becoming the default tone?!

I'm in the toilet so I do not hear it but I can imagine it.

Bobz's iPhone sitting on his desk, everyone else around working quietly. The room is still and peaceful.

But someone has decided to phone Bobz which is the moment the iPhone springs into action, piercing the tranquil office mood.

The ringtone is the first few words from the song "Pass That Dutch"...

Suddenly the only sound in the office is the noise from Bobz's phone.

"RUN FOR COVER MOTHERFUCKER! RUN FOR COVER MOTHERFUCKER! RUN FOR COVER MOTHERFUCKER! RUN FOR COVER MOTHERFUCKER!"

Apparently it didn't go down to well with some of the other team on the bank of desks next to ours.

23:17
I need sleeps which means I am going to send myself to lulz-land waking up every hour panicking that I've forgotten something.

23:22
I'm practically asleep already!

Monday

05:10
Urgh. I'm awake because I can't sleep which is probably the most profound thing I muster at this time of the morning.

I feel like shit because instead of having just one gin and tonic, I had about 17. At the start of a week, this isn't good. I am going to be exhausted for the rest of the day.

Are teetotalers really dull people?

At least they probably get a good night's sleep and don't wake up in the morning feeling like shit because they spent half of the night on the couch in the lounge with the DVD menu on an endless repeat.

Being woken up by that 15 second clip of music, usually the main theme of the film, is about as awful as listening to someone else vomit.

I am going to try and lie down for 30 minutes. Because then I have to get up and get ready for work.

I'm not a morning person. Especially when I haven't slept the night before.

20:18
Come to think of it, this morning was never going to be easy, given that 10 minutes after pulling the suitcase out of the cupboard to fill it with clothes last night, I had climbed into it.



Urgh.

Things will be fine once I am god-knows-how-many-thousand feet in the air enjoying a glass of orange juice.

I think what wakes me up in the middle of the night is the thought of the doctor.

I'm sitting in a local GPs' surgery and the man in the white coat says "hmmm... unfortunately it's bowel cancer. You really shouldn't have binged on booze all those months ago Mr Bobby".

It does induce small panics.

It really can't be good for you. And what the fuck is it with age? Age really fucks you.

I cannot deal with hangovers like I used to. In the old days you sort of feel a little rough but once you've had something to eat, you feel okay.

Nowadays it feels like I've been slammed into a brick wall. And no amount of drinking water the night before helps.

21:01
You'll be so pleased to know that I've been tidying up and I haven't had anything to drink. I think we should raise our glasses to that!

I always used to say to myself that I couldn't never become and alcoholic because I enjoy the taste of wine too much.

But now for the first since ever the feeling of the hangover, the guilt, the waking up in the middle of the night sweating and not being able to sleep far outweigh any taste.

When I get back from holiday it's Day 1. Day One of no booze. Nothing.

And the scary thing is that I am slightly worried that I can't imagine life without alcohol.

Alcohol dulls. It blunts. It prolongs having to face the pain. It deludes. It creates a false sense of security. It creates a warm feeling where none exists.

I can smoke a cigarette, put it out and not touch another one for weeks. I can walk into a casino and gamble for an entire evening and have no urge to return.

But give me a glass of wine and I can't stop until I've vacuumed up the entire fucking bottle. And the Scotch and gin and the stash of vodka in the deep freeze.

21:46
Can't believe that all that I've said can be summed up by me saying; "I am never drinking again."

It's rather depressing that we both know that this is complete shite.

When the air stewardness comes around she'll go, "would you like a glass of champagne before we take off?" Inside my head I will be screaming "nooo...!!!!"

But out of my mouth will come the words "oh why not, yes please. And if there's another glass going spare..."

21:49
I'm giving up on this Monday. I'm going to bed. I said I needed to be in bed by 10pm. I have to muster the all power to at least achieve that. At the very least.

Thursday, 04 Sept 09

You can call me Psychic Glenda. Go on, do it.

Here it is, as it comes to me. Om...
The usual timings are a little fucked
(If you're new to this, get lubed up and jump in*. As the day progresses so we write about what happened based on detailed timings.)
* = revolting analogy.

I went into Armani today, I slapped down my credit card and I said to the guy with the shaved head and shaved chest behind the counter, "go on, fuck me."

And he wrapped it up and put it in a bag.

Do you like my new jacket?

It has zips and it feels beautiful.

I am one of those people who has as much style as a fucking bedspread but when I see things I like, I have to have them.

Of course, if I had a million pounds I would be the best dressed fucking homo in the whole of London-town.

Armani is posh but trashy. Faux-trash is in. Trust me I'm a psychic - I know what fucking shit is being hatched on the horizon.

Glenda hatches more
So I am shopping in Westfield and inside I am spunking all over my new Armani jacket.

While walking through the centre I look around. "Look, you fuckers... it's fucking Armani, baby."

Everyone is looking at me because my new jacket is fucking beautiful. It's fucking Goya. And Lautrec.

I stroll through Westfield and quietly I am shitting style and taste. My discernment is smeared on the shop windows like a mentalist with bad teeth and vocal tic does with his own shit.

But mine isn't shit. Mine paints a fucking raindow of beauty. It smells of jasmine and newly-watered roses. Like Estee Lauder.

Glenda hatches more
Who the hell is this in front of me?

Why it's one of the hottest men who's ever touched a rugby ball.

(He is my height. We see eye-to-eye.)

I need to remind myself of this hotness so I am Googling "Josh Lewsey shirtless" and this is what appears...

Er. I don't think that's him. Here's the search, look for yourself... Look ma, no shirtless.
As everyone who's concerned in these matters is, I have asked for a statement on the issue of this Google search and have received the following, flown in by my personal courier pigeon...

From The Office of La Bloggeur du Prep dans Le Londres*:
"Oh dear God I look so skinny there, thankfully I've put on some muscle since."
He is pithy and he is right. He sees fact and dives in to swim amongst it's many virtues.

I say to him "you can only be strong for so long, it may not eat you but it will beat you. This is why I tell you I really don't understand."

Like the call of a madman at the front door of a women who dresses in lingerie, Ένας άνδρας γράφει στο Διαδίκτυο says "I seem to be eternally linked to Josh on the interwebs."

This is just the kind of delusional, cross-eyed weirdness that we so love. Yes, you are forever linked. The bond is strong and enduring and it is beautiful. And secretly Joshua knows and accepts this too.

(* = The singer formally known as London Preppy)

And so.

The Josh and I are in Holland and Barrett and we both are in the queue buying gym supplements and he never looked at me like I was in imposter.
File under: Ricochet Compliment

Glenda hatches more
I am sitting having supper with Liam. We had planned to gym but there's been a tragedy in the soft-seating area.

While there, Liam got a call from a friend to say that a very good mutual acquaintance had committed suicide. Well, that's shat shit on everything a little.

But as in the final scene of Carry On Up The Khyber... our dinner continues merrily despite the pall of tragedy that hangs in the air.

We still decide that we're going to have fun in two weeks' time and drink booze and stuff the night fantastic. We toast this over dinner as we remember Liam's friend who's died.

Do you know... (and here comes the fucking blog epiphany of the evening...)

In the five years I was at boarding school, every year a boy tried to commit suicide. In 1995, my second last year, a guy succeeded. He hanged himself and died in the showers.

In my first year, I had the horrific (and I use that word genuinely) misfortune to find young Brent, a student from Namibia, slumped in a pool of his own blood in the corner of the bathroom. He'd slit his wrists with a penknife.

He survived but was taken out of the school. That year we had to study Dead Poets' Society (DPS).

As you know, the film details a harrowing suicide.

It didn't go down well with my parents that I had saved a boys' life who'd tried to top himself but now teachers were forcing me to watch and digest DPS.

The next year I was made a prefect.

Fucking private schools. So corrupt they made the poppy-growing tribal leaders in Afghanistan seem as pure as Camden Council library monitors.

What I'm saying is that no matter how shit things get, suicide is worthless, useless, selfish, ... you get the idea.

Glenda hatches more
I think I've had enough now.

Talk amongst yourselves. Talk dirty. Talk Talk. It's good to talk.

Tuesday, 1 September 09

07:10
Bish bash bosh!

Hmmm....

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)

07:12
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.

07:56
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.

09:21
Um?

09:24
Ah!

11:13
How you imagine Bobz typing the Am Not Blog...

(Partially true.)

How the real Bobz looks while typing the Am Not Blog...

(Not really true either.)


13:02
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.

Halle-bloody-lujah!

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 stomach lips pushed against me*."

(* = 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...








22:49
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!?