Am Not Blog

The End

2010-06-30T00:18:00.003+01:00

The End.

That's it.

This was my life but life moves on. I have moved on. Thank you for reading when you did.

All of this and everything that's gone before it will stay up until someone decides it should be taken down.

I know I should have done it sooner.

The End.

The End. The End. The End.

If you want further entertainment try Random Hot Guys. It's at http://www.randomhotguys.com

While you were working...

2010-05-17T13:45:00.002+01:00

Log onto Gaydar chat on a Monday afternoon shortly after 1.30pm and it's so fascinating to plunge yourself into another world.

I'm sat at home with Sky News on, having lunch and outside the birds are tweeting.

Within five square miles of me, hundreds of thousands of people are sat at their desks or in a Pret queue, typing Word documents or on the phone.

While London carries on as normal on an given Monday...

[nevergohungry]young cute guy looking for someone to fuck him in front of an older gentleman for £200 now... be hot, be hung, be good with your hands and don't be too short :-)
[esandwhizz]nr Tott Court Road - pvt ok Bottom for Top - accom NOW - chem session
[esandwhizz]nr Tott Court Road - pvt ok Bottom for Top - accom NOW - chem session
[esandwhizz]nr Tott Court Road - pvt ok Bottom for Top - accom NOW - chem session
[fitbttm4top]HUNG TOPS WANTED THIS PM
[fitbttm4top]HUNG TOPS WANTED THIS PM
[platts>CAMDEN/EUSTON TRAVEL ONLY
[kram22]wanting to suck cock good
[esandwhizz]nr Tott Court Road - pvt ok Bottom for Top - accom NOW - chem session
[old_etonian]WESTMINSTER AREA MEET NOW? GAGGING TO SUCK AND RIM A GUY!!!!!!!!!!!
[cumnside]DOORS OPEN. CUM IN AND WATCH ME GETTING FUCKED
[kram22]wanting to suck cock good
[frogmarch]HORNY BOTTOM BITCH NEEDS TO BE USED - W4
[frogmarch]HORNY BOTTOM BITCH NEEDS TO BE USED - W4
[frogmarch]HORNY BOTTOM BITCH NEEDS TO BE USED - W4
[frogmarch]HORNY BOTTOM BITCH NEEDS TO BE USED - W4
[ezaro28mad]hello everybody
[wolveskitlad]Any active dom top for a scally sub into footie kit, lycra gear and tights well up for cp, bondage, rubber, ws, bc etc - got cam + poppers gaggin please pvt me
[rainbow1963]Hi guys, I can accom now in Bethnal Green
[blondgeza]22 BLONDE HAIR BLUE EYES CAN ACCOM GANTS HILL LOOKING TO SUCK A GUY OFF TO COMPLETION!
[blondgeza]22 BLONDE HAIR BLUE EYES CAN ACCOM GANTS HILL LOOKING TO SUCK A GUY OFF TO COMPLETION!
[blondgeza]22 BLONDE HAIR BLUE EYES CAN ACCOM GANTS HILL LOOKING TO SUCK A GUY OFF TO COMPLETION!
[bottom_stockwel]any1 to milk in my throat now hi guys hot gym in stoclwell area looking for hot cock to milk - meesage me for more - msn cam / video av

The messages just keep on coming, faster than anyone can read them. Like the Victoria Falls, an endless cascade. Offers, some of them clean, most obscene. A sign how desperate things are on a Monday?

And I bet that, not 50 metres from "heavy cummer central looking to get fucked" there is someone in a McDonalds putting mayonnaise on their beef burger.

Such is the way in London.

My Fabulous Life Pt 1

2010-05-12T23:32:00.000+01:00

Hanging out washing is such an unenviable task. Thank god I have someone to do it for me.

That's what I plan to say to be able to say to myself in the next few years.

I want my motto to be Vini Vino Lamborghini. Or rather; I came, I drank, Lamborghini.

Now that I am nearly 32 I have decided to live life fabulously. That's also my motto. In Vivo Fabulosa.

This fabulous will manifest itself with smoked salmon in the fridge, a mirrorball in the toilet and cupboards overflowing with Armani.

There will be no loo roll, there will be silk scarves by Salvatore Ferragamo. Wipe your bum with silk and flush it down the bog - I don't care.

I will fill the bath up with Dom Perignon and piss in it. The champagne I haven't used, I will drink from my patent leather Pradas. What we don't drink from, we bin.

Photo books from Phaidon I will buy and use as firewood in the BBQ on the terrace and on it we will create a bonfire using Chippendale desks, £50 notes and Chanel No. 5.

We'll collect civil war-weary Kalashnikovs and hang them on the wall. Our necks will glisten with diamonds sourced by bloodied 4-year-old slave children in Sierra Leone.

We'll used the skull of Emperor Bokassa as an ashtray, while we're slumped in our gold-leaf Colombostile chair vomiting into the glass of 52-year-old Macallan single malt.

In Scotch Vommo.

Bring me another slave. Paint my nails with the blood of virgins. Don't change the channel on the TV - throw it out of the window at the poor people below.

Financially poor, morally poor, aesthetically poor. In here we're so fucking beautiful.

I've just opened another pot of Sevruga because the Beluga's finished. I think I'm going to need more than just one Salvatore Ferragamo scarf. Bring it to me now.

Further Grindr fitties

2010-05-03T21:34:00.005+01:00

Excuse me but collecting Grindr profile pictures is a valuable journalistic endeavour.

Right. Shall we start with the best? Although I have to say that somehow I don't think that the picture below is a proper punter photo. Or rather, it's a very professionally done "self pic"...

D'ya think it's legit? Pecsuk? More like Poutuk...

More legit. Hawt...

Again, quite hot but can't work out if this is taken in the kitchen or the bathroom. And what sort of phone is that? And is there a banana in the shorts or are the shadows rather flattering?!

I don't know why I kept this one...? I think it's maybe his rather amusing insistence about his preferences. Or maybe it's the very odd and veiny shoulder. I dunno... Looks a little fit although has a - hmm... white tank? Honey, the 80s aren't that back yet...

Older and bolder. Fit, yeah?

Check out this dirty little scally. He does angry face! Although I am not sure about the hat. And the old iPhone either. Sista, you is well time for an upgrade bruv. Etc.

I like the chest. He's rocking that JFK Jnr look, don't you think? Although at 38 years old you would think he would at least live in a house which doesn't have sheets for curtains. And he's kinda working the knickers too. Just.

Um. Yeah. I can't work out this one. Great skin - looks tight. Dunno why I kept this one. Would you?

"Just checking it out" is code for "horny bottom pump fist-fest pig oink", isn't it? Again, do you think this is a genuine pic or rather something nicked from some TV series biog internet page? He's whole face practically drips off those cheekbones. Dahling, you better werk!

Yeah, I like this one. Another dirty oink! But what's with the height thing? And is that a shirt or some sort of hankerchief that he's got draped around himself? Whatever it is, he's holding on to it for dear life. Perhaps later his teeth will be as clenched into the pillow. Woof indeed.

Beirut. I mean, everyone loves a little civil war once in a while. I think this one smells alot of Madrid Pride. And that's not the person in the pic.

And excuse me bitches...

If you spot any Grindr lushness, ping it forth. Let's air it for the globes to see. Get in. Mail me; amnotblog AT gmail.com.

Gordon Ramsay's filthy mouth

2010-04-19T22:58:00.002+01:00

Hell's Kitchen USA is currently on ITV 2, that "cookery" programme in which Gordon Ramsay gratuitously swears profusely at contestants in the most contrived manner possible. The irony is nearly comical.

Gordon Ramsay has to pick a winner; that is, the chef who's produced the tastiest food.

However, isn't it strangely ironic that to get people to produce really beautiful food, out of Ramsay's mouth emanates the most toxic and vile language?

There's a quote; "cooking done with care is an act of love". So how does Gordon Ramsay interpret that?

Fuck, fuck, don't fuck it up, fuck man, that's fucking shit. Fuck. Shit. You're fucking shit. Fuck fucking fuck fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck shit. Fuck.

He doesn't need tasty souffle in his mouth, he needs hot soapy water.

Jussayin.

Even more Grindr fitties

2010-04-16T20:39:00.003+01:00

So here's more of the same really...

For 39 years old, that's not bad is it?

Then check out the chood below! Wow...

It took me a while to work out what the photo was, but it's of a moob resting on a stomach. Can you see it? It's a bit like guessing a Picasso.

Good eyes...

... and good Speedo.

The one on the left or the one on the right? I take the one on the right. Not both.

Doesn't the one on the left look familiar?

More Grindr fitties

2010-04-01T15:09:00.002+01:00

Well, I use the word fittie rather loosely...

Just some of the boys I have spotted who're on the look-out etc.
(Now with added commentary...)

Cute, except for that leather thing around his neck. Yeah? Oh diddums comes across all shy like. If twink's your thing...

Then what about HauteVie or High Life? People who use French to describe themselves are either French or partially French. And there's a Facebook link.

Edit: Okay, this is a good photo. But there is something quite attractive though...

And then Tom? Either he's a dum blonde (check the email address) or this is some 50-year-old perv using the picture of er, someone from a TV series or Calvin Klein advert.

And Robert. What a good name. What do you think of Robert? I'm guessing Swedish? Or Southern California?

If they were casting a Rocky Horror revival, well they have their Rocky then, don't they?

And then this filthy little scally? I like. Of course he could have a face like two grannies in a scooter pile-up but does that really matter? Cheeky, fun and a sixpack. Is there anyone else wrong with this picture? (Other than the Achy Breaky Heart shirt...)

Finally. When in doubt or desperate, use puppies.

Passenger action on the Jubilee Line

2010-03-27T15:50:00.001Z

Have you ever been on the Tube when there have been delays because of "passenger action"? I sometimes wonder what they mean by "passenger action" because Transport for London are usually quite explicit.

If someone jumps in front of a train they say that there are delays "due to a person under a train". Or if someone is taken ill then they will say just that.

But what is "passenger action?" Well, I can tell you.

It's Friday 26th March 2010 (holy shit where is the year going?!)

Anyway, I am travelling into Central London at around 22:20 and I get into a carriage where there is a woman sat who is, quite simply, raving. She's shaking and yelling.

This being London, everyone else is ignoring her by reading their paper but someone has pulled the alarm.

There are two extra-strength beer tins on the floor where she is sat and she's holding another one.

I step out of the carriage as soon as I got on and it's not long before staff from the station arrive.

The Tube employee is trying to get the woman to let go of the can of alcohol that she won't stop drinking from.

It's not long before the ambulance service arrives and thankfully by this time they have managed to prize the can of lager from the woman's grip. Can you see it on the ground near the door?

Now we get to the frustrating bit.

The woman is absolutely inebriated, on super-strength beer so she's shaking, shouting and refuses to get off the train. I reckon she was bordering on an alcoholic stupor. She can't speak but is making loud shouty noises.

And when the paramedics try to lift her up, she yelps and wiggles loose to become free and fall back into the chair. She's too drunk to even tell them to fuck off!

(Note man with newspaper...)

Finally, having sat there for about 5 minutes, other paramedics have arrived and with the help of the station staff, the woman is picked up and bundled off the train...

She off and we're on the move!

We arrive at the next station, the train doors open and from the platform you can hear the automated announcement.

"Ladies and Gentleman there are delays reported on the Jubilee Line due to passenger action at West Hampstead station."

So you know what that means...

Thoughts on I Love You Phillip Morris

2010-03-27T02:13:00.006Z

There are definitely spoilers ahead so, if you want to see the film, I wouldn't bother reading further because it will just spoil it for you.

OK, so if you didn't know - because the makers of the film have been struggling to find a distributor for it; 'I Love You Phillip Morris' is like a gay rom-com-con drama prison thingy with Jim Carrey and Ewan McGregor.

Ewan McGregor (he Scottish) plays an American and there are a few times when his accent wobbles. And Jim Carrey sometimes teeters on the verge of becoming Ace Ventura and shouting "aaallll-righty then!"

But actually, on the whole, the film is pretty good. Well, there is one sex scene that is like hectically gay.
That's not to say that the sex scene makes it bad - it's just that the level of er - detail, I don't think was necessary.

I liked that the film appears to be a "start to finish" film but actually takes a lot of twists and turns. Get me?

The narrative has a lot of colours and textures too. There's farce, comedy, romantic moments, smutty moments, sad moments - it's all in there.

Maybe the reason that this isn't a better film is that it does sometimes feel a bit box-tickey.

I spotted a few Hitchcockian noir-ish techniques, for example, whenever Ewan McGregor's character is upset, he is seen behind the shadow of prison bars.

And just before bad things are about to happen, calm water features in the scene.

Anyway.

Yeah, the groany bit was at a particularly tender moment the Duetto-Sul Aria from Mozart's Marriage of Figaro is heard which is, of course, used heavily in The Shawshank Redemption. Maybe this is on purpose.

My friend Katie (she, straight) said she really enjoyed it and thought I might like it. I phoned her afterwards and thanked her for the recommendation.

"I thought it would be 90 minutes of La Cage Aux Folles, but I was pleasantly surprised."

I am not recommending you go and see it. Four people walked out during the film. You'll either mildly enjoy it or loathe it. True?

Thoughts on Alice in Wonderland 3D

2010-03-19T01:37:00.003Z

There may be spoilers ahead so if you don't want to know, then don't read on...

So. I absolutely loved it. Loved it.

Do you know when you're sitting watching a film and you think to yourself, 'god, I'm just so loving sitting here and watching this?'
That's how I was in 'Alice'.

I loved The Red Queen, played by Helena Bonham Carter. Loved. I loved Stephen Fry as the Cheshire Cat.

Of course Tim Burton (the director) lives up the road from me in Hampstead in London (please note monumental name and suburb bomb, thanks...) Anyway, so old Timmy, my mate, lives up the road and obviously takes walks on Hampstead Heath in the winter because so much of the scenery resembled Hampstead Heath.

So it all felt warm and close to home. Aaah...

And did you notice too, for example, when Alice is sitting in the White Queen's castle before she slays the Jabberwocky - the scenery isn't matte painted, the waterfalls in the background actually fall?

It's those minute attentions to detail that meant I just felt lavished from start to finish.

I didn't find the 3D tiring or intrusive and there weren't the tedium of endless things flying out into the audience.

It was colourful, clever, visually stunning and; I have read some critics who've moaned that the characters are a bit short and one-dimensional but I disagree. This is Alice in Wonderland, it's hardly fucking Ingmar Bergman.

Oh well. I loved it and would go and see it again. And Johnny Depp was brilliant too. Although I am a massive fan of Tim Burton. Batman and Beetlejuice are in my Top 40 movies of all time, like.

I would give it 8.5 out of ten.

All you can eat...

2010-03-17T14:29:00.007Z

If you're in Cape Town and you don't go I will consider it a dereliction of your duties...

And with a whole 27 of them, there's more than enough to go around...

So come on then... fresh meat anyone? You for seconds? Do you like your beef salted? etc...

David Beckham causes earthquake in snowy Vancouver*

2010-03-16T05:29:00.009Z

* = not really, but it sounds good.

I know we've done it before but like a dog returning to its own vomit, we'll do it again...

This is only because it's one of my obsessions... So, how much do we love pictures of suburbia?

You'll find the original here.

The original photo is here.

This is nearly as cool as a David Hockney painting...

See the original photo here.

And then this one, which almost has The Jetsons theme tune running in my head...

The original photo is posted here.

Be. Still. My. Beating. Heart...!

The original photos is available here.

It's the awnings man... it's all about the awnings!

The picture is available here.

Okay... I think that's enough obsessing about amazing houses...

Thoughts on A Single Man

2010-03-12T15:10:00.005Z

Big flashing ~~pink~~ black warning: Major spoilers ahead.
If you have seen the movie or don't plan to but are interested anyway, read on... otherwise don't read further because it will spoil the film for you...

Yeah. There's nothing nicer on a Friday lunchtime than going to a cinema and being all alone in the audience, ironically, to watch A Single Man.

The only problem is that I really didn't enjoy it. Or rather, I did right up until the last 3 minutes.

So, extraordinarily stubborn man's lover dies and he believes that life isn't worth living so he's going to put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.

But at the last moment man meets a young hottie so decides not to commit suicide but then falls off the bed and dies of a heart attack. Are you kidding me?!

OK, the film is ba-yootiful. Stunning. The art direction is beautiful. It is beautifully shot. Beautiful clothes. Beautiful sets. Polished cars. Clean surfaces etc.
It is luxurious, rich and sumptuous, like a two-hour Gucci advert (Tom Ford, ahem...)

And Julianne Moore is stunning, the boys are stunning, Colin Firth and his hair are great. The lighting, the shots - everything is absolutely handsome but you pile all of that onto a story that, for me, has such a flimsy ending and the whole thing collapses under its own weight.

Which is exactly what happens.

Colin Firth's character George is a complete drama queen. He is stubborn and annoying. Yeah, we all have issues in our lives and we get over them. I haven't read the book (by Christopher Isherwood) but I did think to myself that he was too arrogant to commit suicide. He wallowed in his own self pity. Colin Firth plays all of that, exceptionally.

I loved the use of "Ebben... Ne Andro Lontana" when George is trying to kill himself. Complete melodrama.
The aria, from La Wally, is basically sung by a despairing women who thinks she's lost everything.

I loved Julianne Moore's character. Did I say that?! She's Patsy Stone with better hair.

I loved the scene when George is solicited by the Spaniard outside the bottle store though I couldn't work out if the screaming Psycho poster was on purpose.

Yeah. For a directorial debut (at the risk of getting really poncey...) it was very good. But the massive anti-climax at the end ruined the whole thing.
It's like those annoying films that continues for two hours, only for the main character to wake up at the end and realise it was all a dream.

Or when a friend starts to tell you a really good story and ends it with "I'm only joking..."
Meh.

David Cameron votes to stike British Airways with a Ford Fiesta*

2010-03-11T13:16:00.007Z

* = not really.

I don't know what Grindr is. Actually, I have never even heard of this social-networking device for poofies and half-poofies.

Although I will say that a friend of mine once downloaded Grindr and turned it on at the office and the bloody thing went into meltdown which is probably why my friend only uses Grindr for shits and giggles.
And to gossip about colleagues he spots on Grindr.

Oh, go on then... yes or no?!

And, yes or no?!

And finally...

Even when you're cruising, always remember the earthquake victims...

If someone had the initiative they would register guysongrindr.com and turn it into the new Guys with iPhones.

Sometimes I think I should give up my usual job and start up an internet consultancy. For example, I still can't believe that the official Wimbledon website is at www.wimbledon.org

Surely the URL should be www.wimbledon.net

Think about it...

Lottery winners vote to invade Afghanistan with Gordon Brown*

2010-02-15T22:59:00.002Z

* = not really. It's SEO baby.

No seriously. It's weird not having a home. A home in the sense of somewhere that I call home.

I live in London. I have lived in Cape Town. I was born in Zimbabwe. So where is home?

I was walking through Westfield London, looking at the hordes of people and they were all foreigners. Foreign to me that is.

I am not really British but I live here. In my passport it says that I am British. I also have another passport that says I am South African.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about moving back to South Africa. But the South Africa that exists now is not the South Africa that I know.

I left it in 2003. A lot changes in seven years, especially in a place like South Africa.

Going back to Cape Town is nice because the place hasn't moved on. It is a fishing village and that's its charm.

The problem is that at some point I am going to have to stop running. At some point I am going to have to commit and say this is my home. Where that is, I don't know.

I am not someone who wants to dress in the South African rugby jersey and I am not someone who feels emotional when I hear the South African national anthem.

I miss the county - and not in some cheesy "the pulse of Africa beats in my heart" rubbish.

I think to myself every morning, "when I am 40 or 35 or 50 or 60, I'm going to give up the endless fight that is London and move back to Cape Town" but then I think about Cape Town and what I would move back to.

Life in Cape Town is superficial. It's skin deep. It's easy and it's dangerous. The place annoys me and it infuriates me. Cape Town is limited. It is small.

London is big. London draws you in. London is someone who you serve. No-one is bigger than the city.
You feel like you can't leave London. When you're not in London you feel like you're missing out.
London is hard and it's tough. It's difficult. The people in London are like they are in New York; no-one gives a fuck.
Oddly, the same can be said of people in Cape Town.

I just look at the long-term prospects for South Africa and it doesn't look good.
When I think of the future of South Africa, all I can remember are the words of Mzukizi Gaba, a senior member of the ANC who once told a police officer, who arrested him for driving on the wrong side of the road; "The day Mandela dies, we will kill you whites like flies!"

Oh, I don't know where this is going. I know that comment is incendiary and I know that it's bad to leave it at that but ...

Whatever. Right now I am thinking of a place that I'd like to call home. Is it in London?

If London was by the sea and had a marvellous temperature and a lovely mountain and all my friends were here and there was no overcrowded Jubilee Line, I would start to call London my home.

Clare Short marries Jordan and Alex Reid in Haiti*

2010-02-02T23:13:00.001Z

* = have you heard of SEO? It's all about cramming relevant facts into the headline. We're taking it to a slightly new (ridiculous) level...

It pains me, it really does. I wake up in the morning and I think to myself, "I really should write something on that blog..."
And then I roll over and think about it and drift off to sleep.

Well, not really.

I spent so much time building this little thing up, writing it and caring for it. It's a bit like watching a plant in the garden wilt and slowly die.

There is something that I am working on and enjoying it, even though at the moment it's in need of updating...

http://yearofcox.tumblr.com
And no, it's not pictures of willies.

I have taken a really cool picture which I can't wait to upload. If only I could find the lead that attaches the camera to the laptop. Bollocks...

Oh, I'm sorry but where did 2009 go?

And - can you believe that it's already nearly February?

Can we talk about music for just one second. In particular, one song...

When I hear the first few notes of the tune my back teeth start to ache, like when you bite into ice cream.

I'm going to type the first few words for you and perhaps you will scream and run to the dance floor in some sort of twee mock excitement.

Or you could do what I do and battle to keep your dinner down. You ready?

"I gotta feeling. That tonight's gonna be a good night..." Oh god.

You know how the rest goes... "Too nize the night. Let's live it uh" etc.

I've tried to pin down exactly what it is that makes me loathe the song so intensly and I think the reason is that it's too contrived.

There are other songs like it;
Chumbawumba - Tubthumping
Lou Bega - Mambo No. 5
Baha Men - Who Let The Dogs Out

Those are songs that, at the time, everyone thought were fabulously hip but were actually just destined to become a disco filler at weddings when the drunk dads in suits stagger about the dance floor.

"I Gotta Feeling" is just as bad as the rest of them. It's safe. Contrived. Phony. It's a bumper sticker of a song. It's like the "joke" that the presenter's sidekick tells in the morning on the radio.
It's the FW: FW: email that contains some lame quote about ambition and destiny.

I don't think I'm being sufficiently rude enough. Although, why have I decided to attack it now?

Murphy's Law dictates that as soon as you cultivate an intense dislike for a piece of music, you will then hear it as often as possible - gym, radio, shopping centre...

I think it's quite enough for one day.

Brad Pit and Angelina Jolie divorce in shock Manchester United shirts*

2010-01-24T11:34:00.007Z

* = obvious rubbish but for the sakes of SEO (aka making your site credible in the eyes of Google) we have to insert important words into the title.

Yes, I know. So.

The problem is that the internet in South Africa is reliably shit so you can't really do much. I was on holiday there, it was nice.

But now I am back in the UK, which is nice. Sort of.

Being back in Britain means using the internet is a far easier experience which is why I've been able to stick some of my favourite holiday pics on Flickr.

If you want to have a flick through them you can do... some of them I quite like and the only reason I do is because Cape Town is photo-tastic.

If you want to see some of the photos, click on the lonely rich man in his swimming pool in Clifton...

Although that's not what I wanted to show you.

Right. So we all know that this place has become a little dusty of late and that's because I have been working on something else.

No, not another ... basically, I tried it last year and gave up sometime in May mainly because I dropped my one and only camera.

It couldn't really work if you didn't have a camera. Now though, I have back-ups.

So basically... new toy but the toy you're looking at isn't going to be thrown into the bin. It's not dead, nothing's stopped and and...

Click to take you there, baby...

If you like it, you can check back but there are some points...

1/ I will take a new photo every day but sometimes I am not going to be near the internet in order to post it. I will do my best. Innit.
2/ Um...
3/ It's already annoying me because some of the colours in the photos look odd. And there's no uniform colour, structure or feel to the pictures. They're all a bit haphazard but maybe that's the point?!
I dunno - maybe they would be boring if they had some sort of uniform style.

Hopefully as the year progresses the photos will get better and better. Whatever.

Um... yeah.

Anyone for tennis?

British Airways staff vote to wear Gordon Brown masks and dance in the UK snow*

2010-01-07T09:51:00.006Z

* = emphatically not true, but...

There's this new thing called SEO - have you heard of it? Apparently Google rates a lot of information about a site or story by the words in the title.
Hence, in 2010 we're going to have ridiculous titles because we're all about credibility and since British Airways, Gordon Brown and snow are all in the news, who are we not to jump on the bandwagon and piss from the inside outwards?
Oh, and SEO stands for Search Engine Optimisation.

So, what a busy little beaver have you been then?

I have been busy too... preparing something for you. I'll show you in a couple of days but here's a taster...

I call it; "How to relax..."

Monday, 28 December 2009

2009-12-28T23:58:00.000Z

22:19
When I listen to The Pointer Sisters singing "Neutron Dance" I have this urge to flap my arms.

Anyway...

So listen - God, does it feel like the end of the year to you? Everything's coming to an end. It's the end of a decade for God's sake.

I have started to collect some of my favourite images over the last few months and what kind of fool would I be, were I not to share them with you...

So this is the first one of the BT Tower in Central London.

I think the kind of space-shippy structure against the clear blue sky.

And then there's this image of 1970s Soviet Russia...

Well actually not. It's West London at dusk.

Don't you think the cold-looking air and reddish hue give it a feeling of suppressed communist living? I think so - it's the tower blocks...

Then this picture which I absolutely fucking love. Everything just seemed to come together at exactly the right time, although it makes me look fat...

The colours are like beige and black and, I think it's a little cool...

23:23
God. So that's it for 2009 in London.

Tomorrow I fly to Cape Town for New Year but more importantly, for a holiday.

Therefore, this is the last post from London for this decade.

Whenever I hear people talk of the end of the decade, I immediately want to start singing "reached the end of a decade... in another ten years' time... Who can say - what we'll find...what life's waiting down the line... In the end of - '89....."

Weird. Weird how I remember first listening to that song as a kid and thinking about the end of 1989, which hadn't yet come. That was about 20 years ago.

That's the problem with pop culture being bombarded at you constantly.

I bet you can't recite three lines of a classic poem but could recite and source these lines...

"Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone. I hear you call my name and it feels like home."

"He came into your apartment, he left bloodstains on the carpet. Then you ran into the bedroom, you were struck down. It was your doom."

"As I look back upon my life, it's always with a sense of shame. I've always been the one to blame..."

"Some of them want to use you, some of them want to get used by you..."

"Hello. Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can here me..."

And even then there are too many words...

"Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?"
"Love... soft as an easy chair..."
"And now, the end is near..."

Or what about just three words.

"Lights! Models! Guestlist!"

23:54
So all of this leads to: Bobby's No. 1 song for 2009.

There have been some very strong contenders for this year...

Lady GaGa - Bad Romance
Mari1yn Man5on - Arma-goddam-mother-fucken-gedden (Teddy Bears remix)
Muse - United States of Eurasia
Pet Shop Boys - Love Etc.
Die Antwoord - Doosdronk
Fake Blood - Fix Your Accent
Prodigy - Invaders Must Die (Chase & Status remix)

However, the song that will come to forever be associated with 2009 stands head and shoulders above everything else.

I first heard it around March 2009 and instantly fell in love with it.

I knew I was going to have my birthday in Cape Town in early June and so I begged a DJ friend of mine, who spins at Cape Town's most fabulous gay club, if he would play the record for me when I was there.
I turned London upside down looking for a good quality bootleg copy and, as far as I can tell, the tune made its Cape Town debut thanks to me.

Back in London for the start of summer we went to the song's album launch in Heaven.

We danced to it at London pride. We danced to it at Brighton Pride. We roared with delight when Dizzy Rascal sampled bits of it at Wireless.

We beamed from ear to ear when they played it at XXL. And one of the remixes they played at Beyond.

When I was back in Cape Town in September I went back to the homo club and Charl played a remix version of the song when he saw me. (The Alex Sax and Evan Sax mix)

It is a song that, when I listen back to it in 20 years' time, will remind me of everything that's happened in 2009.

I've tried to hold myself together
Tried to forget you, gone away...
The tears I've cried
They won't subside.
Unless the music starts to play...
So come along now boys; and sing it loud and sing it proud...

Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer...
DJ give me the answer
Love stop getting me down, down, down...!

What an absolutely worthy winner of the title of The Song of 2009...

(Oh yeah, and if you're doing isotonic training and working your biceps and want to hold something for a minute, the time from the bridge to the end of the build-up after the second chorus is exaclty one minute...)

23:58
So will you excuse me while I go and finish the rest of my packing. See you in Cape Town.

2010 reckons, boys...

Wednesday, 23 December 2009

2009-12-23T21:27:00.006Z

There are a few oddities in our house...

(How much would it bother you, were this to become some sort of weird photoblog? That's what it appears to be turning into...)

So anyway, in our house there some rooms where all reality seems to have been excluded. For example...

In the lounge there's a mirror that doesn't reflect.

And then in our kitchen, the microwave has a setting for "zero gravity".

If you're not expecting it, it can be a little disconcerting...

But enough of the house of comedy.

Have a look at these...

First is a VW that was parked in the road outside. I reckon, if you were to put a car into the deep freeze, this is how it would turn out after a few hours.

Yeah, it's been cold over the last few days.

And this is what -7C looks like...

How do you feel about that?

Cold should be your answer...!

Saturday, 19 December 2009

2009-12-19T20:52:00.003Z

I am thinking of starting something called a blog. What you ever heard of something so ridiculous?

You're supposed to post stuff everyday. Don't make me laugh.

The name of this blog would be called "Teabreak On The Thunderbirds Set." That's because, when everyone takes tea on The Thunderbirds set, all the marionettes go limp and collapse...

I can't believe that people indulge in these silly blog things. They're for sissies...

Wednesday, 16 December 2009

2009-12-16T23:16:00.005Z

22:51
I went and bought a new camera yesterday which I am loving. Although Sally isn't.

She says it's like living with the fucking paparazzi because there are even flashes coming from the bathroom. Ahem.

So anyway, to practice with this new device, I though I would share some pictures with you. This could be filed under the tab "most boring post in the world ever" but thank you for indulging me. Innit.

What I am going to show you, in a series of photographs is how to make my lunch.

First you're going to need square medium-sized Tupperware boxes.

Then, get a cucumber and chop it into little slices using a knife. Obviously.

You'll also need three tins of tuna. I used what must be the best invention ever and that is drained tuna. It means you simply peal open the tin and it's ready to eat.

No silly tin openers, no draining the bloody stuff...

Use a fork and dig the tuna out of tin but not too hard, otherwise you risk flicking the tuna halfway across the kitchen.

And now sort of poke your fork around the tuna and cucumber pretending to be all cookery-like...

Next, open a bag of Sainsbury's ready-prepared salad - the one with beetroot in it. I think it's around £1,19 a bag.

Then, as a little treat, drain some smoked mussels. Totally fucking healthy food fuck-fest...

Finally, once you've added the whole lot together, it looks quite yummy.

And store in the fridge for you to take to work and eat the next day.

And that's the story of my lunch for tomorrow.

Thank you for reading. Seriously. Thank you.

(Er... is anyone still awake or have you fallen asleep on your hands...?)

Those nine pictures in a few words each:
1/ Badly framed
2/ Wrong bits of the cucumber are in focus
3/ Okayish
4/ Tuna's too pink
5/ Dull
6/ Odd light from above
7/ Looks like everything's about slide off to the right of the picture
8/ Flat
9/ Stock (dull)

Tuesday, 08 December 2009

2009-12-08T23:13:00.006Z

22:41
So I'm leaving the gym and it's been a good work-out. Pumping dem guns baby...

And I'm walking to the Tube station when this guy stops me. He's young but is dishevelled and a bit smelly.

He asks for money because he has forgotten his wallet at home. I have heard that excuse to beg before. And I have also heard the guy's accent before. He is South African.

I ask where he's from and he tells me he's from Durban. I ask him if he's okay and I ask him why he has no cash.

He came to London to earn some money but because of the way the economy's gone he has lost his job and is sometimes forced to beg. The benefits aren't enough to survive.

He has no friends because he's either abandoned them as he's too ashamed of his situation or they've returned to South Africa.

He's now living in a homeless hostel in Holborn. He comes to Swiss Cottage by bus to visit his girlfriend. "She's staying in a house around the corner."

She's not from South Africa but Eastern Europe. He says she's earning some money from time to time.

As far as his mum's concerned, her son is happily living in London. She doesn't know that he's actually homeless, alone and begging...

He doesn't speak to his dad - who probably wouldn't care anyway. And that's where this begins...

There is a plugin-thingy of an MP3 file on this page that may require a Quicktime download to play. It should work if you can see the play button. If you can't hear it, please let me know.

Whenever I see people begging I always think that it's a mother's child even though I never give.

It's even worse when you can picture their mum thinking that, although her son is 10,000 miles away, he is hopefully safe, healthy and warm.

Just like I know my mum hopes that I am.

Monday, 07 December 2009

2009-12-07T00:08:00.002Z

00:08
I'm slightly too embarrassed to even show my face.

That's all I can manage to say at this point. Yes, embarrassed.

It's official: I am crap.

Wednesday, 25 November 2009

2009-11-25T23:51:00.002Z

23:48
When my dad used to say that he never had enough hours in the day I always used to think that he said it because he really was too busy and that the day wasn't long enough.

And then someone said that people who say that they never have enough hours in the day use it as an excuse because they're disorganised. And that idea stuck because for a few years my dad wasn't my favourite person in the world.

But it's true because I now realise that he wasn't disorganised. There are simply not enough hours in the day.

In the mornings I get onto the Tube and my hair is still a little wet from the gym because I've rushed.

And I am usually out of breath because I've ran for the train and I jump on just as the doors are closing. But all of this counts for nothing because I am still late getting into the office.

And then I work flat out but I have to do a menial task like buy stamps but it's too complicated so I don't bother doing it and that fucking envelope has been dicking about in my bag for around four days.

All it needs is a fucking stamp so that I can post it. Maybe it's just a London thing?

Maybe it's only in London that the queues in the Sainsbury's, where I buy my tuna in tins, at around 10pm is like 15 people deep.

And there's a wait everywhere. People, queues, pushing.

I get home and I make my food for the morning and I can't find a Tupperware box and that takes five minutes and then I realise that I'm not going to be in bed by 11pm because I want to be up early and fuck.

And then I can't find the remote for the Mac so I can't plug it in to listen to music and then I find the remote and I'm still thinking, what the fuck ever happened to that letter I was supposed to post?

Oh, it's in my bag without a stamp.

London. Fuck this place is for fucking idiots. But I am not having a London-hate day.

I have those every day but it's like that quote from er... it goes something like (and I've replaced London for democracy)... London is shit and it isn't perfect but it's the best that there is.

I'm having one of those days where .. oh god, I'm not going to bore you but doesn't it sometimes seem like everyone else's life sails on in calm serenity but yours kinda bashes to and fro?

Fuck.

My eyelids are heavy I can't keep them open.

Do you mind if I carry on with this in the morning.

And by the way. There's a new personal trainer at the gym. He is hot off the scale.

Liam and I are sure we know him from somewhere - Chris says he's straight.

Liam (not me) is sure he's seen him from where somewhere - in Liam's words; "like on one of those websites where straight men get their knobs sucked off by homos for money."

There is something familiar about him. Cocky, muscular, tattooed, cute, very friendly, built like a boy from the continent who dances in gold hotpants on a podium in Fire. Er...

The story, my pretties, continues shortly...

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

2009-11-24T22:23:00.000Z

20:45
I think we should have Cultural Tuesday. This is an occasion where we are able to share and promote different videos and music and shit.

We're so fucking highbrow we make the fucking LRB look tabloid.

Firstly what do you get when you mix an over-pumped porn star with a budget set?

Er - if there's anyone who can explain what the fucking is happening here, I'd be interested to here.

Click on the picture to go to the video
And watch carefully because afterwards there could a test...

Question One
A post-modern tale of pop art genius. Discuss.

Question Two
How many pull-ups do we see Mr Loverman doing and can you beat his record?

Question Three
At around 2'16 we see Mr Lover in the company boardroom. Is this actually just the dining room from the previous scene with the pie dish replaced with a pie chart?

Question Five
Why is there a semi-naked picture of Mr Lover on the pie chart in the scene mentioned above?

Question Eight
Fuck the test.

Question Nine
Talk amongst yourselves for a bit.

20:47
Remember.

Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets.

21:06
I have a found a band that are going to be as big as The Rolling Stones.

Except not really that big.
There's another problem too and that's that they're South African and they sing in Afrikaans.

But I feel I would like to share this band with you. I mean, we all listen to Edith Piaf and she sings in French.

The band is called Die Antwoord which is Afrikaans for The Answer.

In this picture we see the three members of the band and those three members are, from left; Yo-landi Visser (pronounced Fisser), Jack Parow (Parow is a bit of cruddy suburb in Cape Town) and DJ Hi-Tek.

The song I would like to use by way of an introduction to Die Antwoord is Doosdronk.

Now, from here on in there is going to be some extremely descriptive language so you might want to put the kids to bed....

Doos is a slang word for vagina, in the strongest possible sense and dronk means drunk. So doosdrunk basically means cunted. Ahem.

You can listen to their tune here and to help you along I have prepared a rip-and-read translated version of the lyrics.

Okay, it's not quite "On A Clear Day You Can See Forever" but it's a close 9th.

::Song start::

Jack Parow? Daar's die man nou!
Jack Parow? There he is now...

Party, party, party, party...!

Hoes ya. Here maar ek's in my poes in.
Woo man. God, I'm cunted

Dude maar hy's fokken wasted.
Hello hoe lyk dit, ek en jy naked?
Dude, he's fucking wasted
Hello how do we look, you and me naked?

Fok jou, kom ons gaan lekker 'n dop hou
Kom by [can't work out] die Witblitz
Sit terug, vat 'n fokken sluip van die Klipdrift.
Fuck that, come and lets have a drink. [Something about witblitz - a very potent home-made alcohol] and then have a swig of Klipdrift [a brand of shitty brandy, favoured by vagrants and poor alcoholics]
Ah shut up you fokken bastard
Don't fuck around with the drunk [...?]

Kyk hier jou ma se porno
Don't want gehelp van my kopseer
Look at your mother's porno
And I don't want help with my headache

Kyk jy na my, ek is in ripper!
Ons party nou hos, nou lekker!
Something about 'let's party'...

Laa-dee, daa-dee
Party, party, party, party!

Chorus
Doosdronk,
Stop [val?] op my hond
Poes jou in the mond
En val op die grond
Cun-ted!
Stop falling on my dog*
(Untranslatable filth)
And fall on the ground

* = the references to the dog relate to it being a sort of an anthem of homeless alcoholics who enjoy getting drunk, spouting vile language and domestic violence.

Doosdronk,
God, waar is my hond?
Le in my kotz en
Vrot in die tronk
Cun-ted!
God, where is my dog?
Lie in my puke
And rot in jail

Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...
Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...

Waar's die papsak?
Jissie ons is heeltemal fucked up
Where's the papsak*?
Bloody hell but we're totally fucked up

* = papsak is a South African word for the silver foil bladder in boxed wine. As far as I'm aware they're actually banned in the country now because having wine available in such vast quantities apparently contributes and encourages crime and social degradation.

Score die vokken [?] vrou en dope
Kom ons gooi 'n bietjie [driete?]
I don't understand this bit but it related to having women and spliffs

Kyk na my piel doen so 'n beweging
Look at this...
Look at my cock and watch it swinging
Look at this...

Ek soek 'n piss.
Gaan piss in die hoek
Oh fok, ek dink ek gepiss in my broek
I need a piss
Go and piss in the corner
Oh fuck, I think I've just pissed myself

Gee vir my fok 'n [?] shooter
Los it!
Don't be a party pooper
Blas die hooter...
Give me a fucking shooter
Leave it!
Don't be a party pooper
Sound the horn...

Ons se nou baie drankie vir die drankie!
Wat sal ons doen sonder 'n drankie
Bokkies, boerekos en rugby?
We say thank you for the booze
What would we do without alcohol
Women, barbeques and rugby?

Don't worry be happy happy.
happy, happy, happy, happy...

Repeat the chorus.

Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...
Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...

Little comedy section of domestic violence...

Waar's die sleutels? Fok it...
Ek weet nie, look in your pocket
Where are the keys? Fuck itt
I don't know, look in your pocket

Fok jou!
God vrou ek poes now weg van jou...
Fuck you!
God, I will smack you in the cunt...

Fok jou! Hond... Vuil fokken hond!
Wie's jy? Niks! Jy's niks...
Fuck you... You dirty fucking dog!
What are you? Nothing! You're nothing...

22:11
Um.

Has anyone got this far?! Did you enjoy the song? Are you hooked? On the music, not the booze...

I think that brings us to the end of our cultural evening. Did you have fun?

If you have anything you'd like to bring to the table so that we can have a look at it next Tuesday, bring. it. on.

Um.

Tomorrow it's Normal Wednesday where a normal services resumes.

22:18
And what the fuck is that about Lola?

This song absolutely rocks.

Thursday, 18 November 2009

2009-11-18T23:21:00.000Z

Remember that email I sent to my bank?

Their response is below.

Given that I said to them that I expect nothing more than for them to simply point to their terms and conditions like a hairy sex-starved matron, they have done me proud.

I win this argument purely because they're just so fucking boring.

I managed to read the first two paragraphs but then screamed in pain. Anyone bothered to read to the end?

18/Nov/2009 09:22

To: Mr R Cox

Thank you for your electronic message dated 14 November 2009.

I'm sorry for the upset caused by the management of your account, particularly the fee recently incurred. In the circumstances, I would like to take this opportunity to clarify our position.

With effect from 1 October 2007, our overdraft service changed. These changes were introduced to enable us to provide a service that offers choice and flexibility for our customers, whilst ensuring that we continue to lend responsibly.

As such, you can now request an overdraft in the following ways:

* Formal overdrafts may be requested in advance and will be agreed and authorised (subject to status) for up to 12 months.
* Informal overdrafts may be requested by presenting a debit for payment such as an ATM withdrawal, cheque, direct debit or standing order, when there is not enough money in your account. These requests will be authorised (subject to status) for 31 days. If another informal request is received within the same period, this will be treated as a new request.

In both instances, if the informal or formal request is agreed, a GBP25 arrangement fee may be applicable and is non-refundable, irrespective of the amount of the request in question, or the length of time required.

In your case, an informal request for an overdraft increase was received on 14 October when the balance of your account reached GBP505.89 debit and a fee was therefore incurred in line with our published Rate and Tariff. Whilst I understand your frustration, it remains your responsibility to monitor and manage your accounts and you should ensure that sufficient funds are available prior to items being presented for payment. As no bank error has occurred, I am unable to offer a refund.

Please be assured that the fee was not an attempt to recoup part of the joining incentive you were given. Our Rate and Tariff is applicable across the whole of our customer base and without prejudice.

Turning to your comments with regards to the conversations you had with us on 10 October and 14 October. Our records show that on 15 October we advised you that we had listened to the calls and we explained that the system was live and the fee would stand.

At first direct we are passionate about providing all of our customers with exceptional service so we're fully committed to providing prompt and accurate resolution to any complaints. If you are not completely satisfied with our response, please tell us at any time within the next eight weeks. To do so, you can telephone us on 08 456 100 100, send an electronic message via firstdirect.com, or write to Customer Relations at 40 Wakefield Road, Leeds, LS98 1FD. Otherwise, we'll consider this matter closed.

If we can't offer you a satisfactory resolution, you can refer to the Financial Ombudsman Service (but we really do hope it doesn't come to that). Further details about how to do so and about how we respond to complaints are contained on our website, www.firstdirect.com/howtocomplain.

Thank you for taking the time to write to us.

Steve Smithard
Credit Services Customer Relations

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

2009-11-17T23:21:00.001Z

22:21
I seriously do not know where the bloody time goes. It's like there's a time black hole.

But.

You're never going to guess this but. It's like everything is coming full circle.

22:25
Ohmygod. I have started to make resolutions for 2010. Is that a bit silly? I have a feeling that 2010 is going to be an amazing year. I find that odd years are always a little shit and even years are always good.

Odd years are ones I sit around on my arse a little, even years are ones where I get ahead. It's weird like that. Ohmygod. Where has the time gone?

Like who can remember anything about 2007?! And what was 2008 all about?! It's like they have all just merged into one. And also, doesn't it feel like 2008 was like a redux version of 2007.

And 2009 has been like the director's cut of both years combined. Anyway.

So I have started to make resolutions for 2010. Like WTF.

I sound like some airhead Beverly Hills bitch.

22:35
Ohmygod. So we were mentioning about everything coming full circle which is funny really because it wasn't something that happened on the Circle Line, it was on the Jubilee Line.

Who can remember the hottest guy in the world?

Come on, don't be coy. This is him here. And so is this.

You're never going to guess who I spotted on the Jubilee Line?! Never.

Okay go on - have a guess! Look...

I nearly choked on the water I was sipping when I saw him.

How funny. And did I walk up to him and say "hello, we think your hotness is off the scale?" No.

22:47
I'm digging around on the iPhone to see if there are any other photos I haven't shared with you.

Oh here's one...

Except he's much hotter without his shirt on.

Would you?

22:57
Ohmygod and this photo. I took this last week and forgot to share it with you.

How goddam 2007 is this?

I reckon they'll be tucking into The Da Vinci Code next. Are there seriously still people reading that book!?

23:07
I reckon we need to start "Grindr Hottie Of The Day"...

(Honestly - has anyone actually met anyone off Grindr? It strikes me as a great tool for teasing but actually meeting someone!? Nope...)

Anyway.

Who rates this guy? It's todays "Grindr Hottie Of The Day".

23:19
I think that's enough for the evening. Don't you? And besides. My herbal tea's gone cold.

Friday, 13 November 09

2009-11-13T23:57:00.000Z

23:57
Right. Do you think this is a little strong?

I am writing to place on record my disgust at being charged £25 for going overdrawn, as I did, for a few hours on 14/10/09 by less than £6

The charges are due to debit from my account shortly.

I was assured by you at the time that, all pending transactions considered, my account would remain in credit. This turned out not to the case despite your repeat assurances.

I asked on three separate occasions to listen to the phonecall between myself and firstdirect - which would prove that I was given incorrect advice - and on each occasion I was told that this wasn't going to be possible.

In effect firstdirect played judge and jury in deciding to charge me.

Annoyingly, I did as you were expecting and gave up the fight. I imagine somewhere at firstdirect HQ, a staffer was rubbing their spindly fingers Mr Burns-style and declaring "ha ha Smithers, in the end we got him!"

Admittedly, I am not entirely bothered because I was credited with £100 for joining firstdirect when I did. Effectively this £25 isn't a change, it's just a way for you to gleefully claw back some of the money you initially gave me.

I'm sure it all ends up in the bonus pot to be given to someone who'll use it to buy tacky champagne to spray around a West Club club at bonus time.

I don't expect any sort of response, other than for you to smugly hold up your guide to the terms and conditions, like a school teacher with a hairy chin in a pressed skirt, and declare "well Mr Cox, we did tell you..."

However, I did want it placed on record that I object to the charge - £25 for going overdrawn by less than £6 for a few hours is the kind of business practice that would make lawyer with a baseball bat in a bad suit blush.

That said, I am a journalist by training and it's heartwarming to know that, as much as we and bad-suited lawyers are disliked, we are never going to be loathed to the extent that UK bank workers are now. Every cloud, silver lining etc. No offence intended...

Finally, having sent this at 11.16pm, the bolshy language and outlandish metaphors might suggest that I have enjoyed a fairly liquid Friday evening out, the truth is I am very much sober and am actually working a nightshift.

I couldn't let it pass without mention that I think the charge is unfair, wrong, outrageous but more importantly, completely contrary to what good business should be about.
Then again, if you were about good practice and being fair to customers, you would have gone out of business ages ago.

Sharing my thoughts has brightened my night. You're welcome to use this as a dartboard / loo paper etc.

It better be okay because I just sent it. Do you think they will tell me to fuck off?

Thursday, 12 November 2009

2009-11-12T23:24:00.001Z

23:16
Ohmygod. Where did the last six days go? What the hell...?! Did anybody see that?

No, I haven't been killed in World War 3. Although I have to admit that the fighting as all but ceased, simply because Liam and I haven't seen Beckham* around.

* = not really David Beckham but a dickhead in the gym who calls himself Beckham which is strangely ironic because although people find the Beckham attractive (pass the sick bag), this guy who calls himself Beckham is a pig. (Is that a little strong? No...)

I mean, how the hell are you supposed to fight a war if the enemy won't pitch. What the fuck!?

Maybe we need to remind him that there's a fucking conflict that he's in the midst of. Maybe we could send someone down to The Club Where Beckham Works and bash him about the knees with a baseball bat.

Anyway.

23:22
I have had the drawing board out (thanks for asking) and have been planning something.

Do you remember earlier in the year I tried to do something which was, in theory, pretty simple? In fact it was so simple that half way through the year I had to give it up...

The idea is that every day for a year you take a photo of yourself. That's it.

But not like a silly passport photo - you know, put some fucking effort into the bloody thing.

Well this year I decided to do it on January 1st which felt a bit like being kicked forward and not being able to stop to catch your footing.

Sometime around May I stumbled.

The abandoned 365 Project is <--- there if you want to have a look...

I'm just going back over it now and if I may say so... do you know, some of those pictures are actually fucking good. e.g. March 29th, March 18th etc.

I am planning to try and do it again on January 1, 2010. Is there anyone else onboard?

So I'm trying out looks to make sure that I don't run out of ideas and give it up. Hence I dived into the make-up box earlier...

It is supposed to be a fucking freakshow - start big and then refine.

Can I say...

1/ I had no fucking talcum power to set the white liquid base hence it's gone a little pink.
2/ I had no black liquid liner so the bottom eyelids are a little shite.
3/ Do you know how bloody difficult it is to work with black and whites and then stop them from smudging?!

And of course props to the Lady GaGa lips.

Yes, the idea is that it makes you feel a little unsettled. Maybe funny dreams perhaps.

While you lie awake in a cold sweat, I'll be at the drawing board.

Thursday, 05 November 2009

2009-11-05T21:09:00.005Z

19:26
So we're at gym and the first salvos of World War 3 have been launched.

(Incase you've been living under a rock since it's the thing that everyone is talking about, basically we have had to declare a third global conflict at our gym. You can read about it here.)

Like so many before us, this conflict was not started at a time of our choosing and we were dragged into it unprovoked but it will end once we have prevailed.

And our important Three Point Plan For War™ has been instigated, specifically points 1, 4 and 9.

Point one was for Brent - the reception manager - to get the details of ... er, hold on.

Firstly we need to clarify the name of the enemy because we can't keep referring to him as the fugly thug who wears hideous gold shoes.

So, for the task of clarification we have enlisted the help of Christopher* who will lead the intelligence cavalry.

* = our personal trainer, do pay attention at the back please.

"Christopher, what do you know of that fucking tosspot over there with the ridiculously silly gold shoes?"
"Who, Beckham...?"
"I beg your pardon?"

Yes. This guy calls himself Beckham. What a complete and utter - I mean, doesn't it just so fit? He thinks he's David Beckham.

And can I stress again... this guy is your typical thuggish oaf from Eastern Europe with a hairy neck and the prejudices of Idi Amin.

And to think that he calls himself Beckham. It just shows that he is about as deluded as the former president of Uganda and sometime King of Scotland. (Get us and our history...)

What Christopher is also able to tell us is that Beckham works - and I am being serious. He really does call himself Beckham and it is true that he works as a bouncer at a ~~trashy and wannabe~~ club in the West End.

So I have Googled "[name of club]" and "bouncer" and the following phrases pop up:

"door staff and bouncers were all ASSHOLES"
"The bouncers outside seem to all be on some sort of power trip"
"horrible old fashioned sexist bouncers"...

And so the results continue ad nauseam for 28,000 times...

So I think that on point one, we are clearly ahead. The propaganda victory is ours. Clearly everyone in the capital also hates Beckham.

(Ohmygod, every time I say his ridiculous name, I get a little snot in my nose from a mini-laugh.)

So the next point - is this point 2? Anyway, it's PSYOPS, one of the most important aspects of conflict.

Wikipedia drones on endlessly about psychological operations in war - and you may know what they are but if you don't, PSYOPS basically involves fucking with the enemy's mind.

We have the tactics.

Basically whenever Beckham comes near Liam or I, we both make vomit noises.

Adult issues deserve a mature response.

Oh yeah, and when he wanders off to drink water from the fountain or stare at his silly fucking gold shoes in the mirror somewhere, we discreetly pack his weights back on the rack.

20:17
So the first day of war has definitely not been like the troops on Christmas Day climbing over the top and playing football in no-man's land.

Fighting has been hard and fierce. Shock and awe. We'll smoke Saddam and his henchmen out of their holes. (Er, I think we're getting our wars mixed up a little...)

Liam and I are able to take some time with Brent to debrief about the battle so far.

Remember it was Brent, the front of house manager, who was going to find out Beckham's (chortle / puke) real name so that we could attack his house with a tank and get his gym membership torn up.

But Brent has had to deal with the fact that apparently the creche manager and the pilates teacher were caught having sex in the pool after hours. This is true fucking shit, man...

Er, excuse me but how are we supposed to be beating the enemy when our lieutenants are having to deal with members of their squadron having casual sex while on duty?

Oh yeah - and another bit of gossip for you (dinkum shit, baby...)

Apparently Steve, the maintenance guy, was again caught bashing one out to Loose Women on TV in an empty staff common room.

War is hell.

Wednesday, 04 November 2009

2009-11-04T23:19:00.002Z

22:37
You know that I am definitely not the kind of person who indulges in exaggeration and hyperbole but it's fucking World War 3 at the gym.

And of course there is nothing worse than having to read of me droning on about what happens in the gym, so here goes...

Liam and I are having a chat and working out and we. are. being. fabulous.

So we move to one of the benches where we want to hang our towels and continue in total fabulation.

And no sooner have we picked up two weights when this man appears.

He is a total fuckwit. I am going to describe his fuckwittery to you so that you can understand just how much of a fuckwit he is.

He is about 35 and thinks he's mighty fucking cool. In fact, he thinks he's so fucking cool that he wears shiny gold-coloured fake Dolce & Gabbana shoes.

Yes. A total fucking idiot.

Anyway, so Liam's sitting on the bench with the weights and this arsehole just wanders up and, in this thick Eastern European accent goes "fuck off..."

What!? Who?!

I'm like "I beg your pardon?" And Liam's like "I beg your pardon?" And together we're like "I beg your pardon?"

He says it again, "fuck off I busy here...."

And I'm like "oh, we didn't realise because we've been here for about five minutes and..." and Liam's like "oh, we didn't realise because we've been here for about five minutes and..." and we're both like "oh, we didn't realise because we get the message...

But he says it again... "yeah, fuck off."

And I'm like, "well sorry but there was nothing here to indicate that you were sitting here..."

He cuts me off and says "well what the fuck do you want? Do I have to leave my fucking hair rollers here for you to see...?"

And we're like "wo."

Except we don't say that but instead behave like typical gays and scuttle off to Brent (gay) at the reception desk to complain.

And I'm like "what a tosser" and Liam's like "what a tosser" and Brent's like "what a tosser."

So Liam, Brent and I devise a three-point plan.

1/ Brent is going to find out what his name is.
2/ Liam and I are going to write a letter to the gym manager saying we refuse to work out in an atmosphere filled with hate-fuelled roid-rage, homophobia and racism (might as well throw that one in...)
3/ Brent is going to lobby the gym manager to get this tosser's membership revoked.
4/ Once we have found his name, I am going to use the information to find out where this wanker lives.
5/ Liam and I are going to throw rocks through his lounge window, set fire to his garden and drive an FV4034 Challenger 2 battle tank through his front door.
6/ Liam is going to search Gaydar to see if there are any homos in the army who will lend us a tank.

Fuck that. Who the fuck does he think he is? Who is he? Who. Is. He?

23:03
Oh yeah, I got this e-mail saying "why the hell can't we comment?" I was like "er... I turned them off because it sometimes feels like ..."

I'm not really sure where they went but they're make. So go on then....

23:18
Because you know how much we like visiting in/famous houses and such - for example, I told you where the X Factor house is.
In case you were interested, a famous singer lives here...

View Larger Map
Think er... "Well I lie here in the wet patch,
in the middle of the bed
I'm feeling pretty damn hard done by,
I spent ages giving head."
Remember, it's totally illegal to even step a foot onto the property.

Unless of course they wear gold-coloured fake D&G shoes and are horrid and nasty to other people in the gym.

Then it's acceptable to drive a weapon of war through their front door. Obviously.

Monday, 02 November 2009

2009-11-02T23:51:00.005Z

2:18
Today I went on an adventure and it wasn't one I had planned. And it's not really an adventure I would go on again.

I was in the Waterstones next to the gym, thumbing through a book about 2008. One of the entries was about the case of Baby P.

If you're not sure, the story is an extremely harrowing one which you can read about here.

Of course, if you were in Britain towards the end of last year you couldn't have escaped the outrage that engulfed the country about Baby P.

And, standing there in the bookshop now reading about the story, my intrigue overcame me. Where did this poor little boy live? What does the house in which he was abused to death look like? Is it still there? Who lives there now?

A quick Google search shows the house is on Penshurst Road in Tottenham, N17.

You may know that parts of Tottenham are pretty depressed. There is nasty war between Turkish gangs taking place in the borough.

As you can see, it's pretty rough...

Abandoned shops and semi-empty streets. It feels edgy.

I have my iPod on, listening to the latest Barbra Streisand album.

If I get caught in some gangland cross-fire at least Barbra will be wailing in my ears as the bullets ricochet off the boarded-up buildings.

There are groups of boys standing on just about every street corner but I'm not brave enough to start pointing my iPhone camera at them. Yet.

From Seven Sisters Road I took the 297 bus to White Hart Lane football stadium. You get off and the area is a mixture of boarded up buildings, car scrap yards and houses.

There is a weird lack of people except for those hanging around. I doesn't feel menacing, just a little uncomfortable.

So you turn onto Penshurst Road from White Hart Lane and you walk through part of a council estate and then road turns to the right.

Carry on until you reach the second last house on the left. And there it is...

Completely unremarkable. Ordinary and a little shabby.

Yet inside that house lived poor little Peter his siblings and an unfit and obese mother who was captivated with violent porn and internet sex-chat sites.

Her boyfriend lived there too. An overweight 6ft 4in man who was obsessed with knives, kept a cross-bow as a weapon and harboured a collection of Swastika memorabilia.

The boyfriend's brother also stayed there. He's a convicted arsonist, burglar and neo-Nazi, arrested in the mid-1990s on suspicion of torturing his dying grandmother to get her to change her will.

There was a Rottweiler called Kaiser and two snakes that slithered loosely around the house.

When ambulance workers went into the house after the toddler was found tortured to death in his cot, they found the house littered with human faeces, dog faeces, and dead rats and chickens to feed the two pet snakes.

Empty vodka bottles and Budweiser cans strewn about the floor, fleas, lice, knives and replica guns.

On the kitchen surface was a dismembered rabbit. The place was infested with fleas and stank of urine.

I honestly didn't know what I was expecting to see or feel when I got to the house. It's a building.
Someone must live there now.

And even though I've now been, stood for a while and looked at the house, I still can't connect with what happened within those walls.

It is depressing to think about, because what occurred there not so long ago was the worst kind of evil. And it's depressing now because it is just so ordinary.

But that's it. It's a house. It can't speak.

People must live there who're oblivious to its history. It needs painting. The bushes in the front need trimming.

Was I really expecting the house to say something? Did I really think there would be something to mark it out as place that has housed hell?

I guess I was just curious.

And that was what I did this afternoon.

Wednesday, 28 October 2009

2009-10-28T22:01:00.001Z

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

2009-10-26T23:30:00.003Z

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

2009-10-19T22:11:00.000+01:00

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

2009-10-13T23:48:00.003+01:00

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

2009-10-11T13:31:00.001+01:00

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

2009-10-08T22:32:00.004+01:00

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

2009-10-06T23:47:00.008+01:00

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.

Monday, 28 September 09

2009-09-28T22:34:00.001+01:00

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

2009-09-27T21:06:00.007+01:00

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

2009-09-25T00:43:00.002+01:00

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

2009-09-23T23:50:00.001+01:00

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

2009-09-21T19:17:00.000+01:00

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

2009-09-19T17:54:00.005+01:00

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

2009-09-15T23:54:00.002+01:00

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

2009-09-14T23:31:00.001+01:00

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

2009-09-12T23:09:00.000+01:00

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...

2009-09-11T14:30:00.000+01:00

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

2009-09-10T21:04:00.001+01:00

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

2009-09-09T10:04:00.002+01:00

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

2009-09-08T23:28:00.000+01:00

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

2009-09-07T21:51:00.000+01:00

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

2009-09-03T22:31:00.011+01:00

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

2009-09-01T22:49:00.002+01:00

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!?

Monday, 31 August 09

2009-08-31T22:16:00.000+01:00

08:22
Having to do The Walk of Shame.

Yes, walking to the tube station to go to work on a Bank Holiday is particularly shameful. I really hope no-one sees me.

08:37
For this morning's purposes the Central Line (La Ligne De La Centrale) will be renamed The Train of Shame.

I think I am the only person in the carriage who slept in their own bed last night. Everyone else is wide-eyed.

08:59
Sitting at my desk, on the last day of summer. Ignominious.

"What did you do on the last day of summer 2009?"

"I went out clubbing and ended up having 7-in-a-bed sex in a cheap West End hotel. Well there were actually eight of us but one of the guys passed out. We fucked around him.
I knew one of them properly, two others I hadn't met although we've been friends on Facebook for years.
It was quite hot except one of the guys was on Grindr constantly, trying to get more guys to join us.
In the end this other bloke pitched up - he was quite muscley and really into GBL and bareback but he wore a condom.
So anyway, what did you do?"

"I worked."

12:55
Look...

13:01
The reason I posted that grab is because I actually do have some advice for you.

You see, this site isn't all just self-loathing and random pictures of hot guys in Sainsbury's...

Today's advice is that you should think carefully because surprising people.

I am travelling to Cape Town in 9 days and 7 hours and I phone up my parents to tell them this surprise and my mother goes "what!? Erm, we're going to be..."

And then I phone Andrew to tell him the good news. "Oh. We're going to be away for the weekend of... um. Er..."

And then there's Alex. There is no way that Alex won't be around.
"Guess what?"
"You're going to Zimbabwe? When..." Um.

Now I'm just wondering who else isn't going to be in Cape Town when I am supposed to be there surprising them!

File under: fuck up.

15:20
Of course we all know that Lancashire* boys are built tough.
* = county in England.

So how do you feel about gravy, Lancashire boys and wrestling?

I didn't think that much of it until I realised that, put together it means Lancashire boys wrestling in gravy...

Ohmygod... let's get stuck in there. Like now...

Can you imagine the smell of butch muscle boys and gravy? And check out the chair - they use props too!

16:01
About to get onto the Central Line. I think it's going to be hell. Wish me luck...
#NottingHillCarnivalmadness (urgh!)

16:29
Changing for the Jubilee Line because I want to go to the gym. The Central Line wasn't the nightmare I was expecting...
This can be filed under the most important update on this blog EVAH!

17:03
Gym which is so ground-hog day-ish that you would poke your eyes out with boredom were I to tell you.
(Except for the part where this really hulky, fit muscle-boy asks me spot him and I get quite close to him but have to run away because nature has take over for an instant.)

19:24
I have list of all the things I've wanted to achieve in my life. You've probably read about some them.

For example, I have made a concerted effort to be:
1/ An Olympic swimmer
2/ An underwear model
3/ er...

Of course my ambition is mixed with laziness which means I will probably never achieve anything (note: ricochet self-pity)

Anyway. My new ambition to be a great photographer.

I have taken some interesting snaps in my life actually - I won't bore you with them. Oh okay then...
Just kidding.

Anyway. I've been looking around to see whose style ~~I can rip off~~ use as my inspiration.

So how much do we love the following snaps and don't we so wish that we took them ourselves?

First up, Matthias Vrien took this, part of a spread called Pool service:

It has all the elements; gratuitous male nudity, objectified women and hyperreality.

That's what photos should be about. They should present an image that is completely unattainable. They should be fantasy.

My fascination with women as objects comes from when I was a teen growing up and reading Hustler magazine as a decoy.

The women were presented in a completely unreal sense. They were all perfect and airbrushed to perfection. Particularly photos by Suze Randall.

Anyway, here's another Matthias Vrien picture. It is fabulous, I think...

Of course everyone loves David La Chapelle although I think he's become a little like his photos are in spite of himself...

I mean some of his stuff is the best but also like, yeah homo-erotic David Beckham. Whoopie.

Steven Klein's another one... fabulous women looking beautiful and ridiculously manicured men in hyperreal situations.

Hmm...

Before I become a world famous photographer I think I need a camera.

22:27
So we're all getting in a heated panic over Joel, the gravy wrestler. And well we fucking should...

More of this hot mess tomorrow.

22:37
Sweet dreams...

Actually, there is something important about today.

For the first time since last Wednesday I haven't had a drink. This weekend was pretty tough as I was mostly tanked every night with Friday being the worst because I ended up having a boozy lunch and it extended into Saturday morning.

I was supposed to be at a party on Saturday but didn't go because I was feeling so rough (sorry Ash!)

But as Saturday wore on, Sally and I decided that it was going to the last time that we were able to use our terrace so we cracked open the Pinot Grigio. I carried on until around 3am.

It was mostly because I met friends in the West End on Saturday evening (Freud and then Phoenix Artists Club) where we got shit-faced on G&Ts. We were already blathered from the cocktails at Freud's (Alabama Slammers...)

It really is a vicious mixture - the weather is fabulous (a rarity), the sun terrace is huge and warm and the booze is cold and on tap. Before you know it, you've sunk at least two bottles of a crisp white.

And I dunno about you but I get The Taste. One glass and I'm unstoppable until I pass out.

I don't drink to get drunk. I just drink because it tastes so good and there's nothing nicer than being sociable with a glass (or bottle) of wine.

The problem with society / Britain is that it's anti-social not to drink.

Saturday, 29 August 09

2009-08-29T10:52:00.003+01:00

10:52
Do you ever get that feeling like your life is spiralling out of control?

That's the feeling I have right now. I mean, my life is pretty much in control, I guess it's that I am hungover.

And this from last night really upset me...

He was just sat there quietly but he should have been in bed.

His mother was stood about four feet from him going "just get yer fooken arse here and pick us up, you. You're a fookin assol, you know that? Fook."

Update
This day just trailed off into a haze of lunchtime drinking and then heading into Soho for more drinking.
And then getting home and going "I'll just have one more drink before going to bed" and passing out on the couch, only to wake up at 5.27am the next morning.

And while you stumble to be you resolve yourself that this is the last time you're going to do this but deep down you know that you will probably repeat the process in 24 hours' time.

Bad habit. Sux.

Friday, 28 August 09

2009-08-28T23:48:00.003+01:00

05:04
Wake up on the couch in the lounge.

This is the worst result.

I hate people who sleep on sofas or who fall asleep wherever they land but this is exactly what I have done.

Falling asleep in the lounge reminds me of my dad who would come home after work, sit down to read the newspaper and promptly fall asleep for a few hours. I was shipped off to bed before I could say hello.

Yesterday became hideous and busy. I ended up boozing it for a friend's birthday. On an empty stomach.

White wine is okay but difficult when you attack it having not had any food.

My eyes are red and I am spitting phlegm from the wine which causes it.

I am sitting on the corner of my bed in my pyjamas. I should have done this when I came home, not sat in front of the TV and then gone; "I'll just stretch out here for a second while I rest my eyes."

Above post summed up in a few words: 5am. Feel crusty. Need bed,

09:02
Urgh. I need food except there is none in the fridge. Sainsbury's it is then.

09:28
Walking back from the Sainsbury's and I have soya milk, rye bread and a Guardian in my bag. I have become the cliche. I am the stereotype.

Oh fuck - and I'm wearing flip-flops too. Thank god they're not bloody leather.

I read the Guardian and I don't even enjoy it. It's like cod liver oil - you only do it because everyone else does, it's habit and it appears to be good.

(Production note: the Guardian is a left-leaning British newspaper that specialises in killing a large number trees to create paper on which to print endless drivel about stuff that appeals to closet Commies, homosexuals and climate-change campaigners.)
This is fair? - ed

11:27
I am interrogating my iTunes library for an experiment. Are there entirely different songs with exactly the same name?

11:29
Well yes, there are...

The Way You Make Me Feel - City Centre (from a Ministry of Sound CD - not the same one as earlier)
The Way You Make Me Feel - Michael Jackson

Walking on Sunshine - Katrina and the Waves
Walking on Sunshine - J.Lo

Magic - Olivia Newton John
Magic - Mike Smiley from the Ghostbusters soundtrack

Freedom - Simply Red
Freedom - George Michael
Freedom - Shiva

Dreaming - Blondie
Dreaming - Ruff Driverz featuring Arrolla

This game is now dull...

23:28
On the 14th of February 1997 the Daily Mail newspaper did something extraordinary. It accused five men of murder and then challenged the men to sue the newspaper for libel. They never did.

I mention the case because I am about to do something similar. I'm not going to accuse anyone of murder but the conduct may be equally deplorable.

I am going to publish a picture of a child.

It is a photo of a boy that I took without permission. The boy is too young to realise what I was doing. I should have asked his mother before taking the picture.

That said, I would have asked her had she not been on the phone.

It's very late at night and I am at the off-licence buying bottled water and soya milk.

There was a commotion, a woman shouting vile language into a phone as her son - wearing a plaster cast for a broken arm - waited patiently by sitting on the newspaper rack.

23:56
I can't stick pictures on the web of kids without protecting them.

I have had a boozer. And I can't find the words to defend myself.

I can't try to be eloquent and I don't know what to say but all I know is that this depressed me intensely...

23:59
Good night, sleep tight.

Thursday, 27 August 09

2009-08-27T10:17:00.001+01:00

05:54
Holy Moly!

Thank God, it's more like. This Faustian nightmare* shall be over in around 8 hours.

* = I don't know if having to be at work early is some sort of Faustian nightmare but it sounds good. Bear with me.

06:14
At the Tube station.

06:23
The Jubilee Line, so early in the morning, is packed with an incongruous bunch of people.

Blue-collar immigrant labourers in paint-spattered cheap tracksuits who smell of turpentine, sat next to Paco Rabanne-infused City boys on their way to Canary Wharf clad in Armani suits.

And me, straddling the divide. Primark vest (concealed) and Prada shoes (visible).

07:09
The choice in the canteen at work is pretty lean. Unlike the pork sausages that are oozing under the carvery lights.

07:12
I opt for the vegetarian sausages instead. Two of them end-to-end in a roll and smothered in tomato sauce.

It is food that has as much nutritional value as an Ikea lampshade smothered in custard.

08:29
Oh God.
I've had another one and it tasted even better the second time around.

09:03
There seems to be a concerted attack on my will. No, not the thing you use to fuck over your kids once you're dead (leave it all to the dog).

But instead; on the desk where the teabags live there is a packet of Minstrels, Haribo and a box of biscuits. Like an industrial sized shoe-box of biscuits from Tesco.

10:16
Football. What do you know about it?

I know that it's a game, you support it by being a bit lairy and sometimes you run onto the pitch.

The running onto the pitch thing is bad. And anti-social. And nobody likes a thug. It's so wrong. Hooliganism is arcane. Revolting. Urgh. What thugs. Pigs. Ohmygod that's so hot.

Hampster Monday

2009-08-24T23:14:00.002+01:00

05:51
Oh fuck.

06:17
West Hampstead tube station...

06:23
Look at what is on La Ligne De La Centrale... this is the best thing that could happen on a Monday morning...

Arms the size of a 14 year old rugby player's thighs.

Where the hell do these people hide and why is he on the Tube at 6am? Is he doing the walk of shame or is he going to work, a job that requires him to lay railway track with his hands and eat bulldozers?

I. Want. Now.

11:02
Here's some gossip about someone you don't know.

So Anton was at a work party on Saturday and drank so much red wine that he could barely stand up and colleagues had to call a cab to help him home.

But Anton was in no fit state to travel by car and proceeded to vomit all over the cab.

The cab driver stopped to get Anton out but Anton stumbled onto the pavement smashing his face. So Anton is lying in the road paralytic and covered in red wine vomit and blood.

This isn't the kind of service that Addison Lee are accustomed to...

So someone else from work is called to collect Anton who can't stand up and he spends the night on their couch because he can't tell anyone where he lives because he's so drunk.

In the morning he wakes up and asks this colleague "ohmygod - I think I drank too much, I hope I didn't embarrass myself..."

11:17
Whoops!

Well that intern didn't last long. Poor fucker.

We need a new one and facilities management need to get pronto with a wheel-barrow to fetch the old one. Before the mice start to nibble.

Corpses in the office are such a pain to have to constantly step over!

12:03
Enough of all this crass talk. What we need is some fucking culture.

12:48
Ohmygod, this is just what we need...

13:02
Ladies & Gentleman, an occasional series of...
Bobby's Book Club.

(Please note: This differs from the other BBC - Bobby's Broadcasting Club)

Chapter 1
Sapphire is a go-getter, beautiful and drives a cherry-red Mini. She also lives in a penthouse in Brighton which has a lift that goes all the way to the top.

Sapphire's current boyfriend is called Jay and she arrives home to find Jay slouched on the couch. There's some exchange about going jogging on the seafront but Sapphire decides to give Jay a blow-job instead (page 2).

Jay apparently looks like Wentworth Miller, has abs of steel and to reciprocate Sapphire's extraordinary blow-job, Jay does some "mind-blowing oral work" on Sapphire.

Jay is a personal trainer, not a dentist.

(Are you following this? The hero lives in Brighton, drives a Mini and has a personal trainer for a boyfriend who looks like Wentworth Miller, er...)

Anyway. Sapphire decides to ditch Jay for the evening and go for a night out with her girlfriends. The girlfriends are Jasmine, known as Jizz, and Sam - rhymes with man.

Jizz has ultra blonde hair, while Sam has a disastrous love-life and yo yo diets.
(For Jizz and Sam read: future slutty bridesmaid and future ugly bridesmaid. It's clear that, if there's a wedding, one of them will end up giving the best man a blow job against the washing machine. Who it'll be is 50/50)

Anyway, Sapphire, Jizz (it's actually Jazz) and Sam are out drinking vodka tonics.

"Oh, Sapphire, you're such a bitch treating Jay like that..." etc. "Listen, did you see on Facebook about this school reunion - your ex-husband is going to be there...?"

Right - so how much have you been paying attention in the back?

Sapphire's ex-husband. Is he:
1/ a successful estate agent who actually wears good aftershave and an expensive suit
2/ a club owner in Ibiza
3/ a personal trainer who knows Jay and also has abs of steal.

The BBC continues tomorrow...

17:17
After this morning's Incredible Hulk on the Tube this morning, are we going to have a hat-trick on the way home Le Ligne De La Centrale?

Right. I guess that's a no then...

18:21
In the gym with Liam and Liam has decided to play Kieran but that's okay because Kieran's straight and I make a joke that they're just buggering about on the jungle gym (the cross-bars) while me and Chris are doing the big boy stuff on the bench-press.
Secretly I know that they would both rather play heavy-weight heavy-weight with Chris and me but instead they chose to play skippy-skippy with each other.

18:29
Do you know that I find the bench-press the most scary of all the exercises in the gym?

I remember once seeing someone at the then Health & Racquet Club in Claremont (when it was still in Cavendish Square)* doing benches and for some reason he lost control of the bar and the weight fell forward landing across on his chest.

Ohgod. I can't think about it. I'll never forget seeing it. And he couldn't scream because his lung collapsed.

(Feel faint again...)

* = please note the intricacy of the details I've provided so that as not to leave you in any doubt as to the extent that the image still sticks with me.

18:51
Liam and I are having protein shake although my post gym glow is brighter than Liam's. Obviously.

We both see him. Tanned within a a nanosecond of skin cancer, juiced to the point where his skin looks like its stretched leather on a snare drum and in an aussieBum tank top with an ethnic tattoo on one shoulder.

"God, that's so hideous."

"He's probably more insecure about the way he looks than just about every other person here."

"There's more to life than making yourself look good for the pictures on your Gaydar profile."

"Fun is more than just post-clubbing bareback group sex with your current boyfriend, his ex and a creme brulee torch."

19:53
"Why don't you ever answer your bloody phone?"
"I was having sex?"
"With who?"
"A man who is not my boyfriend."
"Oh, I'm just in the kitchen grilling chicken."

23:14
It's bed time. 23:14 is my new curfew.
Tomorrow is another day. Obviously.

Sunday, 23 August 2009

2009-08-23T22:40:00.000+01:00

??:??
After a long and hellish week the point of this weekend was supposed to be quiet and reflective.

What the fuck...?!

And I even said to Nicky and Liam that I was too exhausted to play with them which was true.

But then it's Saturday morning and my housemate goes "do you fancy a G&T and I go, fuck yeah..." and things go very very rapidly downhill.

So Sally and I are sitting in the sun on our terrace caning it. And indoors the cleaner is vacuuming.

And Sally and I decide we need to paint our nails because we're listening to Tori Amos and we assume that this is how cool indie kids behave in London nowadays. It's all metrosexual, baby...

(I don't think cool cats in London listen to Tori Amos, if I'm honest...)

So the cleaner comes into the kitchen, sees us and says, "oh - I are veeery good at nails."

And one thing very quickly leads to another...

Lying on a sun lounger and gulping down booze while the cleaner paints your nails is so over the line, it's practically in the next field.

I think that's why it's now Sunday morning and I am lying in bed feeling rather anxious.

Or maybe I'm feeling anxious because I know I have to go to Ikea. That's probably why I'm feeling odd.

13:28
I'm in Ikea - the one in Neasden which they like to pretend is actually in Wembley because Wembley's a bit better than Neasden.

I need two pillows, a duvet and the appropriate linen to go with those three items.

I check the Ikea handbook to make a list. Right, that translates as a Nob Glans, a Vul Vå and two Smegmas.

15:31
Are you watching this programme about Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland and Tallulah Bankhead?

I knew that Judes and Marilyn were absolutely around the bend but Tallulah Bankwho? What a winner she was!

She is responsible for such gems as:

“Cocaine isn't habit forming. I should know-I've been using it for years.”

“I've tried several varieties of sex. The conventional position makes me claustrophobic and the others give me a stiff neck or lockjaw."

And then the last words Tallulah ever uttered were "codeine... bourbon..." and then Tallulah died.

And when Tallulah had to have a hysterectomy after contracting gonorrhea, her first words after the operation were "I knew it, it was that fucker Gary Cooper..."

What Would Tallulah Do? WWTD...

16:02
Fitting my new bedding. Ooh it's all white, crispy and new.

16:47

17:23
At gym and running.

...21:?

Nearly time for Monday morning. Why does it arrive so quickly every time?

22:18
Ow. I've just noticed that I've burnt the ends of two of my fingers.

This forms part of the Piece Saturday Together game. I think at some point we must have got the fucking sheesha out.

I remember something made me laugh actually. On normal sheeshas or hookahs, the air valve on the side is called an air valve. But for some bizarre reason, in South Africa it's known as the clutch.

I don't know why this makes me laugh?!

22:36
Excuse me but how am-ma-ma-ma-mazing does this look?

As white as the dress on a virgin's wedding day.

Although the duvet cover is still a little stiff from the shop even though I drowned it in fabric softener.

It may feel like cuddling up with Matzo bread for the first few nights. And the bonus is there's space for two.

Or as Tallulah would say:

“I'll come and make love to you at five o'clock. If I'm late start without me.”

Now shh! I'm going to bed.

Wednesday

2009-08-19T23:13:00.000+01:00

Around 2-ish
Roll-over, awake.

Around 3-ish
Roll-around and wake up.

Around 4-ish
Roll-mop, awake.

Around 5-ish
Awake.

5:20-ish
Awake.

5:thingy-ish
Awake.

06:00
Alarm goes.

06:01
Suddenly feel utterly exhausted. Could turn and fall asleep in an instant. What the fuck is that all about!?

06:20
Recipe for trying to stay awake having only had a few hours sleep:

1 x Maximuscle Thermobol
1 x Berocca
1 x sugar free Red Bull
1 x USM protein shake with Alpro soya milk light.

06:20
This recipe seems to be working because I have made it to the tube station and I am still awake.
When I feel a crash coming in, I have sachets of Black Powder.

Sounds fierce and that's because it is. It's like having a nuclear charge forced up your bum. It's this stuff...

08:20
A peanut butter and sesame bagel should do the trick.

08:22
Oh, that's sort of hit the spot. That and another sugar-free Red Bull.

09:51
It's a blur.

Everything I long to do, no matter when or where or who. Has one thing in common, too...
It's a blur.

(Or something...)

11:56
Another Red Bull.

13:02
Bobby's Cultural Observations
(Part of a series, non-recurring)

English people* when it's 32C: Urgh! It's like a bloody heatwave - it's too hot really.
English people when it's raining in the middle of summer: Where's the bloody heatwave we were promised?
English people when it snows in winter: God, this is like living in the bloody Arctic
English people when it doesn't rain for four days: It's a bloody drought.
English people when it rains solidly for three hours: Get the sand-bags I'm concerned about flash-flooding.

(* = as in native to the British Isles, not people who speak English but come from the colonies. The ones who come from the colonies don't just moan about the weather, they moan about everything.

"In (delete as applicable) Australia / Canada / South Africa / New Zealand that's a lot bigger." "Yes, in Australia / Canada / South Africa / New Zealand we've done it slightly better."
"In Australia / Canada / South Africa / New Zealand it's like yours but a bit more exciting." "In Australia / Canada / South Africa / New Zealand ours work, even in the rain."

13:11
What do you call a South African in a suit?

The accused.

I was going to try and find you some other South African jokes but typing "joke + South Africa" into Google produces stuff that should have been tossed into the dustbin of history long ago.

15:31
In Westfield.

So let's not go there...

Er...

22:22
I am trying to type but my eyes are like cast iron shutters.

My sense of humour: gone
My motivation: gone

That hamster on the wheel feeling is back. That's the feeling I really hate.

1/ Make lunch
2/ Re-pack gym bag
3/ Empty dishwasher
4/ Oh...

I can't think about it.

Please excuse me. Tomorrow we'll have naked can-can girls and a man who can lift weights with his penis*.

* = both subject to availability.

Tuesdreg

2009-08-18T23:28:00.002+01:00

09:10
Urgh. Wake up.
What a parlous state of affairs this whole 'living day to day' thing is.

10:10
Lounging around in my pyjamas.

11:21
God, there are some real beauties on Trisha* this morning.
(* = trashy talkshow goodness)

11:22
Cindy, who has tattoo of a marijuana leaf on her shoulder, says that Wayne is not the kind of man she is after.

Wayne drinks too much and Cindy and Wayne can't have children because Wayne has a history of beating up people. Although Wayne did find a naked man under the bed. Cindy says it was her cousin's friend who was fixing the plumbing.

12:31
It's very early but I decide to take some cushions out onto the sun terrace to soak up some rays.
(Commonly known as a pre-lunch snooze)

14:31
Murder, She... you know the drill!

16:20
Wander around house like oooh.. Aaah? Huh?!

18:10
Gym. The usual.

"Well, yes I was using that bench but how were you supposed to know?

"I mean, my towel is draped over it, my water bottle - with my name on the side - is plonked within an inch of it and I have pissed all over it. But that obviously escape you completely.

"So go ahead. Use the fucking equipment I was using. Wanker."

19:10
Sitting in the Starbucks drinking a mucho macho skinny latte.

As the world goes by, KD Lang* is singing.
(* = I refuse to indulge in this silly proper noun non-capitalisation plague that sees her name written as kd lang.)

It's so tedious to do this but if you want a version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" that absolutely knocks Alexandra Burke into the distant shade then This. Is. It...

It relegates Alexandra Burke (won X-Factor by singing the song) because KD sings it from the bottom of her heart.
Wow. Amazing. Powerful. Pitch perfect. Soulful. Beautiful. Tender. Strong.

Here:

19:27
Making dinner which is usually a dull affair except I have cracked open a good ol' bottle of Boschendal. The (OTT) Boschendal back-story gets a regurgitation here.

19:29
So I am chopping vegetables, grilling bits of meat and washing salad while listening to the "Warblers" playlist that I have compiled.

You want it? You got it...

Warblers Playlist:
Lucie Silvas: The Game Is Won
Barbra Streisand: Woman in Love
Robin Beck: The First Time
(Ohmygod - the most amazing song to listen to, to pretend you're in love with someone. Of course you know it so well, it was originally made famous because of this.)
Celine Dion: Let's Talk About Love
Beyoncé: Listen

19:46
The problem is that, despite all these great artists, Babs is trumping them all. I am listening to "Woman In Love" so loudly that I think that the whole of West Hampstead is shuddering their lower jaws along to the words.

20:01
I am trying to have dinner alfresco but the fucking wasps or buzzy things are doing a very good job of making the Outdoor Dinner Experience as hideous as possible.

Let that be a lesson to all of your fucken mates who're about to invade my periphery. You will die...

20:14
I am having lamb burgers (drained of their oil thanks to Tesco home kitchen towel), salad and radishes in a bowl but fa-fuks-sake.

Not the flies this time... Have I told you about the neighbours?

This is them...

Elderly man from India married British woman.
Wife died, leaving man to live with two daughters.
One daughter has three children all of whom live at same address.
Other daughter is bonking the limousine driver who lives with his wife down the road.
One of the three kids from first daughter has Tourettes which means she barks.

Trying to sit and enjoy dinner with Barbra Streisand but I can hear the neighbour's daughter yapping like a Jack Russell.

Urban fucking living. Invaded by wasps, eating processed meat as the teenager next door barks like a St Bernard on heat at Crufts.

21:41
Yes Mr Torrance. Please tell Delbert Grady that I will have top up of red wine. A big fucking barrel of a top up.

22:14
If I were to ask you, would you like to come and stay with me for a few weeks at a rural hotel in the middle of nowhere. I mean, "The Shining" is a horror film but it could actually be beautifully romantic, don't you think?

Except of course for the murdering and the bloods that cascades from the lifts.

23:10
I need bed.

(Oh by the way, it was statement 2. The other two have about a 10% element of reality in them, but they're not real.)

Mondregs

2009-08-17T22:58:00.004+01:00

09:01
Right.
Roll over and go back to bed. This is Monday afterall, I mean for god's sake, what the hell are you supposed to do?!

09:23
Putting my tog bag down in the gym. Ready for a big fat session. Cor, get in there!

09:27
Oh this is quite annoying. I am using a new iPod Shuffle that I loaded with songs last night and it seems I've sorted them by song name instead of album.

09:28
This is really annoying because on an iPod of ready-mixed Hed Kandi music it means that while running you have... "and if it wasn't for the music, I don't know what I'd do do do.... last night DJ saved my" - "Heartbreak make a dancer dancer dancer..."

Music that jumps around really screws with the gym karma. And so is the guy I notice who isn't wearing the usual baggy T-shirt but a vest instead.

Since when the fuck did he get so fucken hot!? Fucker.

11:27
In HSBC bank.

11:51
In NatWest bank. I don't tell NatWest that I'm cavorting with the enemy down the road. Inside my cold heart glints at this treacherous behaviour.
(I think this is a sign that I need to get out more...)

14:15
Okay, shut up. Murder, She Wrote (MSW) is on.

14:21
I always love the beginning of MSW because it's a race to guess who's going to end up being stiffed.

14:36
Why is Jessica Fletcher always right? Howcome they never did an episode where she's like "oh but Sergeant Spencer - er, that couldn't be possible because the murderer would have... um. Fuck, my theory is all shit."

14:56
I imagine when the production team used to write MSW, I bet they had a flipchart in the room marked "phrases every episode must have."

For example:

Jessica to the investigating officer every time she accidently finds herself trying to solve a gruesome and heinous murder: "Officer, would you mind if I just had a look around?"

Just before Jessica solves the murder she says to the useless police chief: "but sergeant, aren't you forgetting one thing...?"

In every scene where Jessica confronts the murderer and explains how she knows they're guilty: "you knew about it all along..."

For added impact, if the murder is particularly gruesome - i.e. a family member who did it who's usually a tennis coach called Trey - Jessica will say "you knew about it all along", while squinting and shaking her head in utter disgust.
You go girl!

15:01
And howcome no-one ever suspects Jessica Fletcher of committing murder. She's always there at the bloody time. Yet it's always someone else. Personally, I don't buy it.

15:37
At around this time in the afternoon I always like to have a little snooze. You will excuse me?

16:23
Did you ever do this at school?

So you ask someone maths questions where the answer is 15. Like, 10 plus 5 and 21 minus 6... so that they constantly say 15. After about 15 questions you then ask them to think of a vegetable and they will always say carrot.

Try it on someone - but who knows how it works?!

22:46
There's this programme on the BBC (what a ghastly broadcasting organisation, everyone hates it as much as NatWest - the bank - and you shouldn't watch it). Anyway.
This is a dig at someone...

Put it this way - I watch the BBC so you don't have to. So. There's this show on the BBC where the contestants have to lie to each other and guess which is the truth and yadda yadda.

I'm inspired. Here are three Truefax! about the Cox, you have to decifer which is the fact and which is ~~fiction~~ a lie.

And tonight's theme on The Narcissus Bonanza!* is "The gym".
* = the quesion mark is all-important, style-wise.

Statement 1:
When I first started going to gym, I didn't take it that seriously because I was a total pisshead. So much so, in fact, that once I decided to sit in the jacuzzi with vodka and cranberry juice in my water bottle instead of water.

Statement 2:
When Richard Branson launched Virgin Active gyms in South Africa I was dispatched to go and interview him. The only quiet spot we could find in the gym was the disabled toilet. So I interviewed the Virgin king while he was sat on the toilet and I was sat on the bin in which women throw their womeny stuff.

Statement 3:
Once, while at the gym, I walked into the steam room and there were three guys doing rather steamy things. Things that weren't really meant to happen in a public place. I was so annoyed that I went and reported them and they got kicked out of the gym. I reported them not because I was disgusted but because I was irritated that they hadn't invited me to join in.

So which is true? Only one of them is. I quite like this fun game.

23:11
Fuck. Is that all I did today - went to gym and watched TV?

I rate it 3/10... and there aren't even any pictures. Tomorrow there will be pictures and there will be laughter. Moonlight and music.
And love and romance.
Let's face the music and dance.

Sunday, 16 August 09

2009-08-16T22:18:00.004+01:00

01:ish
I go over to the lounge window because there sounds like a bit of a commotion outside.

What the...?!

There are two men pulling a third out of the back of a minicab. Either the third man is dead, in a coma or - ah... He's as drunk as a er... like completely inebriated.

And the other man is... Ah, that's the neighbour. The pervy neighbour who lives two doors down.

The pervy neighbour and I go to the same gym although you wouldn't know that the pervy neighbour goes to my gym because the chances of seeing him are unlikely. Unless you hit the showers.

On any given evening from about 6.30pm onwards, the Pervy Neighbour can be found either hanging around the changing room, or soaping up with the shower curtain open.

He knows that I know what he gets up to because I made a point once, while he was within earshot, of saying to Liam (stage-whisper style) something like "yeah, that guy... lives down the road. Is always hanging around in the showers and the sauna, really gross..."

I'm sure he heard because when we walk past each other in the gym or the road, he becomes transfixed with the pavement.

The pervy neighbour is about my age, he's not at all attractive and - it's quite clear what's going on outside.

The minicab has driven off and Pervy Neighbour is sitting on the pavement trying to keep the pissed guy from falling over.

Somebody has got a little too drunk in a bar and Pervy Neighbour has obviously decided to offer up a space in his bed for the night.

I really want Pervy Neighbour to notice me, standing in the window watching him below, struggling with the drunk guy who's swaying.

I know he'd look me at and know exactly what I was thinking.

01:ishish
They're both sat on the low garden wall, pervy neighbour has both his arms around the drunk guy, trying to stop him from falling forward.

Brilliant! He's fucken noticed me.

He's seen me and he's decided to try and get the drunk guy to stand up so that he can manoeuvre him to the front door.

I love it. Some poor fucker is going to wake up tomorrow morning with a very sore head, naked in some weirdo's bed.

I am standing in the window, curtains open, all the lights on, arms folded. He turns to look up at me about three times.

"Yeah motherfucker, I'm fucking watching you and I know what you're up to!"

I imagine Pervy Neighbour will get the lad inside, strip him bare, drag him to bed and then rub up against the drunk, who would have passed out.

And, with all the lights in the bedroom on, I imagine Pervy Neighbour would try and go down on the drunk. A bit like trying to give a blow-job to a finger on an empty rubber glove.

Urgh! I'm so glad he saw me. Busted. Fucker.

10:31
You probably didn't know this but I absolutely hate NatWest bank.

I am lying in bed contemplating either having a bowl of oats for breakfast or going to the gym but instead I decide to phone NatWest.

This is how I deal with latent aggression bourne from indecisiveness.

"Hullo, can I please check - I know I am going to be charged £28 for going two pounds overdrawn on Friday, can I check what other charges I have incurred overnight please?"

"What?! No other charges besides the £28 - are you sure that's correct?"

"There's no 'it's Sunday so that's a 50 thousand pound charge' or a 'we're just greedy so we'll charge you whatever we want charge?'"

"Oh okay, I don't believe you for one minute but if you're happy saying that..."

"Right, I'll phone again tomorrow to check to see if any other charges have been levied against me."

"Good-bye."

10:36
Eating oats.

13:04
The following conversation happens at the drinks bar in the gym, as it has done about 287 times before...

Me (pointing to the protein shakes in the fridge): Hello, can I have one of those chocolate drinks?
Glum eastern-European lady behind the counter: You mean protein shake?
Me: Yes please.
Lady: What flavour?

21:41
Tonight we're obsessed with suburbia. How amazing are the following pictures?...

From here.

From here.

From here.

From here. And then this one... Perfectly clipped and stiff tress that don't move in the wind and painted gnomes. Suburbia at its darkest...

From here. This house is stunning with the cream front door and charcoal walls...

From here. And finally this house, with the concrete block walls. I must live there...

17:09
I'm reminded that it's Madonna's birthday, thanks to one of the generic music channels on TV that only seems to have the new Black Eyes Peas song and Lady GaGa in their tape library.

I bet she celebrated it by appearing in concert somewhere, thrusting her fanny into the audience and screaming "I wanna hear you goddam motherfuckers."

17:17
What?! Camus it fucking ain't...
"It's a party, it's a celebration - let's get this started, no hesitation."

17:19
I think what the world's missing is a Madonna Song Lyrics Generator Tool...

Some made-up examples:

You put in: I wanna dance to the beat
It spits out: So let me feel the heat

You put in: I'm feeling all your moves
It spits out: Cos we're getting in the groove

You put in: We're gonna get this place on fire
It spits out: As the music takes us higher

It's not difficult! I've made up some examples so that you too can test your creativity:

We're gonna let our bodies rock
Like a prisoner in the _______

Our bodies moving in the night
You see me under the disco _____

You're close to me, it feels a trap
Cos Kabbalah's a load of _____

(I think that's enough 'Guess The Made-up Madonna Lyrics' game...)

19:31
Oh, go on! Let's have one more...

We'll have some fun as the music starts to tease us
And later I'll get knobbed by a guy who's name is _____

20:21
Right, fuck off I'm tidying my bedroom.

21:56
And I can't be bothered with Sunday anymore so I'm going to bed.

Friday?

2009-08-14T10:52:00.001+01:00

08:31
Up.

08:41
Heading to gym although I have a feeling this could all end in tears. Metaphorically speaking.

09:12
Running and RuPaul and thumping in my ears. This is a consequence of last night.
The RuPaul + Gomi Ultimix remix of "Looking Good, Feeling Gorgeous" is perfect for running with a chronic hangover.

RuPaul asks "how do I look?" The chorus sing; "you look good."
RuPaul asks "how do I feel?" The chorus sing "you feel good... you're looking good and feeling gorgeous."

09:29
I've managed to run for nearly 30 minutes. I am drenched in sweat which is probably 90% proof.

I really need to stop doing that. Binge drinking I mean.

09:41
There is nothing more sweet and pure than an ice-cold chocolate protein shake. Gimme. Give. Me.

The best cure for hangover is to sweat it out and drink very cold protein shakes. And sugar-free Red Bull too.

Although I think that it probably causes your liver and kidneys to quietly weep.

I have such a terrible relationship with alcohol.

I can go for weeks without a drop and then, like yesterday afternoon, I have one G&T and suddenly it's midnight and I'm sitting on the couch having caned at least seven other G&Ts before getting home and sinking another bottle of Merlot and starting on the Scotch because there's fuck-all else in the house.

You sit and drink it as though there was a bath full of alcohol and you've sank your head beneath the surface to take in as much as possible.

It's odd because ultimately it makes you feel so completely shit the next day. But you can't stop yourself.

"The chief reason for drinking is the desire to behave in a certain way, and to be able to blame it on alcohol."

10:37
I am on the phone to the man from NatWest and we're having a robust conversation because the bank has found it necessary to charge me £28 for going less than £1 overdrawn.

I am using common sense as an argument: "charges are supposed to be a proportionate penalty - this is not."

He is simply reading off a screen... "NatWest details the list of charges on accounts, as published in the terms and conditions when you first opened the account, if you would like, I can send you out a copy of these..."

I stop him.

"Mate, please just stop. Stop.
I cannot listen to you and to this anymore. You know what? You can take that £28 charge you have levied and I hope you choke on it."

(And very quickly you get a sense of what you sound like and it makes you just think, 'I actually don't give a flying fuck what this idiot thinks and if some toss-pot from NatWest thinks I'm a freakshow then I shall wear the badge as a mark of honour'...)

So I start...

"Mate - you can sit there and read the rules off the bank off a screen to me. After this phone conversation I will put the phone down and I will continue with my life - one that is actually pretty good.

"The issue is actually not the money. I earn a lot of money as you can see and £28 means one less meal out for me. It's more a matter of principle.

"After this my life will continue - I will go out later in sit in the sun and listen to music. I will plan holidays to take, parties to go to.

"But you will still be working for NatWest - probably the most despised company in Britain at the moment.

"Imagine how your parents must feel... they brought you into this world - they had hopes for you - they had dreams of what their son could achieve and all you have managed to do in this life is get a job sitting in a warehouse in Bristol, reading off a computer screen on behalf of a bank that nobody likes.

He cuts in; "excuse me Mr Bobby Cox but I don't have to listen to this and I am going to terminate the call."

"No mate. The only reason you want to put the phone down is because we both know that I am right.

"You will end the call and you will sit there all alone - you will look at the pond life that passes for colleagues around you and think "bloody hell, that guy was right - I am a failure. Is sitting in a banking call centre all that I managed to do with my life?"

"I'm sorry but I am going to put the phone down."

"You can put the phone down but you're not going to be able to stop thinking about what I've said."

There is silence. I put a smile in my voice and very calmly say "good-bye now."

Although there is silence I can hear he hasn't put the phone down. But after about 3 seconds the line goes dead.

10:44
I am sure that I got to him. There is a line in the Art of War - a book you should read - that says "exploit the dynamic within, develop it without."

I've worked in a call centre and as much as it can be a laugh, no-one ultimately wants to be reminded that they work in a warehouse having to be nice to people all day.

Fuck him. If he wants to work for a bank that's happy to treat people like shit, then I will reciprocate.

10:46
Sitting on the couch thinking.

All those things I said to that guy at NatWest, I could have said them to myself. And the words would have meant something.

10:51
I get disgusted, appalled, irritated, annoyed and upset with other people.

Why do they not walk fast enough on the pavement?
Why can they not walk in a fucking straight line?
Why do they stop at the top of the fucking escalator?
Why do they run on the treadmill right next to me?
Why do they not fucking respond to my email?
Why do they fucking waste time at the ATM by talking on the phone?
How can they believe everything they read in the fucking newspaper?
Why don't the check-out people in Sainsbury's do it a little quicker?
Why do they ask me if I want a fucking bag when it's quite obvious I need a fucking plastic bag?

Maybe this anger, irritation and frustration I feel is not towards anyone else but instead towards myself?

Is this really all I have managed to achieve with my life?

11:01
Nothing much else happens.

13:25
Nothing at all.

Thursday, 13 August 2009

2009-08-13T08:55:00.008+01:00

08:56
Ah for fucks' sake...

So we had a few people around for a shandy because the football was on and of course things got a little silly.

Disclaimer
We had friends around not because the football was on but simply because. It so happened that England were playing Holland in a friendly. And although it was on, no-one was actually watching it.

I glanced at it a few times because I placed a £5 bet that Holland would win. This was based purely on the fact that man-for-man, Holland looked the fitter team. Although I'm not sure about the orange.
ends

Anyway, so... things got silly and I woke up this morning to find this...

...which is a little annoying.

09:51
Oh thank heavens. The stain is out of the cushions after I nimbly put the covers in the washing machine with A LOT of detergent.

Oh listen - Ricky Martin..

We think he's hot, don't we?

And you've just gotta love how, if you do a Google Image for him, the most popular images are of him on the beach in a Speedo with his much better looking friend...

Holy smokes, the friend is hawt.

I think I was thinking about Ricky Martin because David Beckham was on the TV last night.

Have you seen Beckham recently? He has SO uglified himself. I do not know what Tom Cruise sees in him.

Oh come off it - what the hell do you think?! George Clooney, David Beckham, Tom Cruise, John Travolta, Ricky Martin, Ian Thorpe, Mika...

12:32
You can't disturb me because I'm packing the dishwasher.

12:45
If they knew, the neighbours would say "please can you turn down the Freemasons remix of Justice's Phantom Part 2", instead all they must think is "more of that annoying bloody doof doof noise from 134."

13:21
This London jewel heist is nasty but whenever I hear about it, all I think is "ohmygod - K-K-Ken is c-c-coming to k-k-k-kill me..."

14:16
Ssh please! Murder, She Wrote is on. My daily ritual.

14:51
Bloody hell, Jessica Fletcher never says good-bye to anyone.

23:50
WHAT!?

I wrote all this bollocks about being pissed this afternoon and going out for drinks with Jim and and... it's disappeared!

That is very very annoying.

This is a consequence of being a drunk pisshead and drinking in the afternoon.

So. Can we call it quits and let's start another day tomorrow. A normal day with normal things?

Polyfilla!

2009-08-11T23:11:00.013+01:00

07:10
Alarm
Elerm
Ilirm
Olorm
Ulurm...

Whatever way you substitute it, it's still ugly.

07:47
In the gym. Gymming. Because that's what you do in the gym. This is going to be a day like any other. A day like any other.

08:29
Please consider what I am sat next on La Ligne De La Centrale...

I don't know how or if this day can get any better. Or worse? It's perfect in every way. Perfection in rugby togs on public transport.

Chunky muscular arms. Beefy well proportioned legs.

Suddenly the day goes awry.

Another chunk monster on the way home...

You're going to have to take my word that this one just as good. Smudged in paint. A builder. A brickie. A hottie.

And then in the Sainsbury's. Another one...

Thumbing through the meat counter. Cor, missus!

And then this, I mean - er...

This guy was just standing in the Tube station staring at the poster of the woman clad in a wet dress. What. The. Fuck!?

Like, what looney ogles other people like that? Wierdo. I mean next, was he going to whip out the camera phone and take photos? No-one can be sure!

Do you want to know what's also disgusting? Look... I ate most of the Haribo...

Do you, like I, get the sense that somehow, this isn't going anywhere?

No, the Haribo all went in my tummy but I mean this day? Today.

It's Tuesday 11 August. I'm sure today means something to somebody. To me, it's just another day.

She calls out to the man on the street. He can see she's been crying. She's got blisters on the soles of her feet. She can't walk but she's trying.
Oh, think twice - cos it's another day for you and me - ahem!

Right.

"Right! Well someone's got to break the ice and it might as well be me, I mean I'm used to be the hostess, it's part of my husband's work and it's always difficult when a group of new friends meet together for the first time so I'm perfectly prepared to start the ball rolling, I mean I have absolutely no idea what we're doing here or what this place is about but I am determined to enjoy myself. I'm very intrigued and oh my! This soup's delicious, isn't it?!"

(I know all the words to the entire film... give me a scene, any scene!)

"Yes I did it. I killed Yvette. I hated her so much, it flamed. Flames on the side of my head, heaving, breath - heaving breathless..."

Listen, I'm spent.

This is not me quoting from some silly script. I really am ... just... too... tired and... I have nothing more to add.

(Tomorrow I''ll get me knickers out for ya as recompence.)

Was that necessary Mrs White?!

23:19
Oh god, lets not get started.

Film under: Pathetic in joke
(Do you know the film?)

Monday, 10 August 09

2009-08-10T16:03:00.013+01:00

06:09
Wow. I've just remembered that Nytol gives you fucked up dreams if you take too many of them.

And it leaves you with a mouth that tastes brown. Fuck.

08:12
Second awake and it's Monday fucking morning. What a load of old shit. Note to self: take next Monday off. There are only so many in a month one can endure.

08:24
On the goddam train. And ye I have forsaken La Ligne De La Centrale* plus the Ham & City Line and am travelling on London Overground. Variety and all that...
*= the Central Line.

08:27
It seems it doesn't matter which line you travel on, they're all a fucking pandemonium.

Take this London Overground for example. The train heaves from side to side, thronged with Londoners hanging on, for as many as possible are crammed into the carriage, stuffed in and on their way to work.

Some singing, others chanting. It's a goddam fucking circus masked as public transport. Look...

09:46
Finally we're at Shepherd's Bush and we can get off. The circus continues to the next stop.

09:49
Dash into Waitrose because I need to get some soya milk for my protein shake. This is breakfast.

09:52
The only place I'm able to find, where I can mix up my protein shake is on a table in amongst the posh shops. I get stared at as though I'm mixing up some sort of radioactive device.

09:53
Protein shakes and Prada...

What a pisser.

Westfield is quiet as it always seems to be.

When I'm there: nothing. When other people are there...

Right. In the second / middle picture he's the one on the left. In the bottom picture he's the one third from the back.

Army of stalkers... Ha-ten-shun!

You were so good in identifying Peter, the Abercrombie & Fitch model from Swansea who was born on 9 May and loves the Stereophonics... so what do you know of this new guy? He's our latest crush.

We also spotted him holding the Selfridges banner at London Pride...

So get working. Who is he? Is he kind to animals? Does he smell nice?

(How does he smell? With his nose...)

Er, anyway. E-mail everything you know so we can share - foxycoxy AT me.com or leave a comment. Now.

10:13
Sitting at my desk, working.

Or at least, it would appear that I am working.

12:03
Catching up on stuff and I learn an interesting fact. I shall share it...

Did you know there is a thing called Paris Syndrome? Basically, Japanese tourists have this idealised and romantic view that Paris is beautiful, sophisticated and all French people wear Chanel and act chic.

Of course the reality is anything but. Like all men who work in London don't wear bowler hats.

Anyway, such is a typical Japanese tourist's expectation of Paris that when they arrive and find that the city is actually rather big, crowded and dirty, they go into a state of shock that can lead to them having a breakdown!

Strange. But true. Here and here.

16:02
File under: Jealous, Bitter
People who take photos of themselves like this...

... and them stick them up on Facebook as their profile pictures want shooting, they really do.

16:56
The guy sat behind me is looking at dodgy messageboards because everytime he sees me out of the corner of his eye, he minimises the screen.

I wish I knew what he was looking at...

18:27
Back on La Ligne De La Centrale. Boy-oh-boy... what a fucking carriage of chaos!

I've been at Cape Town buskers market on a Saturday morning where tens of thousands of people surge into the tiniest space possible to try and grab whatever they can. That chaos is nothing when compared to this...

It's a fucking near-riot! Run! For! Cover!

18:40
God, this freaks out me...

People who put their bags on the floor. Do they have any idea how siff* it is down there?

Imagine the soles of tens of thousands of people who've stumped their crap into the same bit of floor. Resting your bag on the floor of the Tube is like resting it in a dustbin.

I actually have difficulty looking at that sort of thing. It's the same as going into a squat in Brixton and splashing your face with water from a toilet that hasn't been flushed for around 5.7 years (leap year included).

* = sif is a South Africa expression meaning "urgh". Like "ohmygod, that's just sif". Or "sif, that's just sif."
I think you can also spell it siff. But not Cif. That's a make of British household cleaner.

19:02
At the gym is Liam who's barely able to fucking contain himself. He's working out with the straight who he loves. It's just wrong.
(Read: Further jealousy)

19:05
"Liam, for god's sake. You're going to poke someone's eye out. Surely you could have worn a tighter pair underneath?"

19:07
"His leg touched my face while he was spotting me."

19:12
"I saw up his shorts."

19:23
"I think you need to go and have a wank."

19:31
Good-bye Liam.

19:45
Did I ever tell you that Liam has a nice bum? Well I am now.

20:01
It's lemming time at the gym which means that wherever I stand, someone will come and stand right next to me.

If you're doing pec flys on the bench, they will come and stand next to you and do fucking stretching or some shit.

Especially the ones who should rather be on a treadmill.

There are certain situations where humans behave like sheep. The gym is one such place.

If you're running on the last treadmill in an empty row, there is always someone who will come and use the one right next to you.
(I know we've crossed this together bridge before.)

The same with escalators, if you're in an airport or on the Underground.

If there are two escalators going up, people will always head to try and use the escalator that is the most busy. Airport check-in desks too. Typical humans will always stand and wait at the desk that has the longest queue.

Humans are sheeps. Lemmings are an accurate portrayal of the human condition. It really annoys me and really intrigues me in equal measure.

Queensway station on the Underground; two lifts going up to street level. People will always gather at the lift where the most people are waiting. It's bizarre.

The same with Covent Garden Tube station which gets overcrowded. There is probably an announcement every 10.2 seconds; "Leicester Square tube station is less busy and a minute walk away - you will be better getting off at Leicester Square."

But despite that, most people will still get off at Covent Garden and everyone else will follow them. For no logical reason, other than thanks to herd mentality.

In supermarkets. People will always stand at the end of the queue that's the longest.

On a train, people will always try and sit in the carriage that is the most full. Take the London to Leeds service.

The first few coaches in Standard are always rammed with people. And the conductor will say "Ladies and Gentleman, there are two empty carriages at the end of the train", but nobody will move even though there are people standing in the aisles.

Perhaps there is an element of "safety in numbers" too...

I can understand in a restaurant, it's nice to be sat with everyone else. No-one wants to sit in the empty corner but getting onto a hot, packed Piccadilly Line train at Green Park?!

At the start of the platform it is always seething with people and the announcement is made; "if you move down to the end of the platform, there is more space."

But a Tannoy is useless because people will hear it but won't listen or move. Once the train arrives they will all try and squeeze into the same carriage.

Some will even miss the train and wait for the next one!

And don't just take my word for it. Stand at the furtherest end of the platform, going westbound on the Piccadilly Line at Green Par. I guarantee you, you will step into an empty carriage.

At the other end of the platform, people will just about be falling onto the tracks because it's so crowded.

I cannot fathom the reasons?! Or maybe I can but they're just too depressing to contemplate.

22:10
I'm going to cook some chicken for tomorrow's lunch. In the oven all together. It's easier to to roast them all at once.

Friday...1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9

2009-08-07T20:39:00.004+01:00

Have you noticed that the first four beats of "Filmstar" by Suede match "Caught A Lite Sneeze" by Tori Amos nearly exactly?

One immediately wonders who copied whom?

'Sneeze' was released in 96, 'Filmstar' in '97.

If you want more music trivial weirdness, listen to the last two beats of Vangelis's song Pulstar. Those two odd noises basically form the percussion riff to Christina Aguilera's "Dirrty".

I love this musical shit.

(Backstory: I am tired, I have been working nights and you can fill in where you think which part goes where...)

To unwind, it's around 7pm-ish and I am downloading and listening to music in iTunes.

When I was around 17 I stole my mum's credit card and nicked money from her account. I was caught by my dad and he marched (drove) me down to the ATM to get the money I had nicked from mum, out of my account.

I am not kidding; the song on the radio at the time was Tori Amos's "Cornflake Girl."

This is dinkum true because I've since made peace with my parents about it and told them that, while I was bust and they were threatening to take me to the police station, on the way to the bank there was a song on the car radio going...

This is not really happening...
This is not really happening...
You bet your life it is...
You bet your life...
etc.

My parents like to think I stole money from them because I was going to raves and being crazy and doing wild (heteronormative) things. That's why, in a sense, I think they let me get away with it for so long.

I mean, you'd start to notice if wads of cash started to disappear from your wallet?

The reality was that I was stealing loads from them so that me and this guy from school could afford to hang with each other after class. I was the one who always offered to pay at this milkshake bar*, if he came along too.

* = this isn't some dreamt-up Hannah Montana fantasy, it's true!

He used to think that I came from a mega-wealthy family because I always had fistfuls of moola. The pathetic thing was that it was usually all stolen from Mum and Dad.

And there's the lesson about unrequited love - despite us getting very close, he's now married with a child. I thank Facebook for those two little facts.

Um... Oh god. I'm dredging up more fucking shit. Can I dump it on you tomorrow?

In the last 24 hours I've been asleep for three. I watch the British Airways advert; where families meet - and I burst into tears.

It's called exhaustion. It's called Time To Sleep.

Wednesday, 05 August 09

2009-08-05T23:54:00.000+01:00

00:22
While you were sleeping...

01:40

02:14

03:36

04:49

07:34
Get home, turn the phone off and open the doorbell to pull the battery out. No seriously...

12:38
Awake. A five-hour stretch is pretty good...

12:51
Ohmy-good-God-motherfucking-fuck. Fuck. It's Project Runway USA.

This is the best thing that could happen to me during the time when I can't sleep.

Today, Project Goddam Runway (Season Fuck Me) is about - or rather, the designers are creating dresses made out of stuff / the curtains / recycled models.

Tim, the silver-haired fox with and accent as endearing as wet toilet paper thrown against the ceiling, is castigating Vincent for his design which "looks like something, I don't know..."

Meanwhile Jeffrey reckons that everyone else is simply "rural remedial bullshit."

13:21
It's time for the catwalk show. The designers are sat on stools like along the runway like targets at a funfair coconut shy.

Various models parade down the catwalk, some wearing furry things (the house ex-pet?) while another throws a handful of feathers into the air (the house ex-budgie?)

Jeffrey lets out a little squeak as the feathers sink to the ground.

13:33
I decide to live my life more like the contestants of Project Runway USA.

"In this situation, what would the contestants of Project Runway do?"

For example, if you were to open the fridge to find that there was no milk for your tea, you should immediately explode into a panic shouting "oh-my-good-goddamfucking-jesus-this is the biggest disaster since I don't fucking know."

14:16
Ohmygoddamfuckingfuck.
Murder, She Wrote is on. I can't keep up with being a Project Runway contestant and daytime TV just gets even more preposterous.

14:20
My advice? If Jessica Fletcher ever pitches up a party where you're at, leave immediately.

And the poor old woman lives in a small sleepy town called Cabot Cove yet every week someone ends up brutally murdered. What does she do to relax, head to Baghdad?

15:30
Daytime TV starts to become afternoon TV which means it's time for bed.

19:30
Awake again. Fuck. During the week I don't even manage to get 9 hours' sleep. Still though, nights suck.

20:20
Running at the gym.
The song is "Don't Give Hate a Chance" by Jamiroquai, remixed by Freemasons.

Basically I can't listen to anything unless it's remixed by Freemasons.

20:21
This is of course a complete over-exaggeration.

21:38
Jubilee Line.

22:29
Work. And huh?!

What the fuck is this all about and why am I having to endure it...?!

The Russian Prime Minister - is this some sort of Heath Ledger tribute?

"Hey boys, I'm going camping and I'm going to get my kit off and I would love you to photograph me."

22:41
Urgh!

23:39
And the end of another, ridicous and topsy-turvy day.

Tuesday, 04 August 09

2009-08-04T23:51:00.004+01:00

00:25
While you were sleeping...

01:34

02:19

03:17

04:10

05:47
A cloudy August morning emerges from the east over London...

07:10
The Jubilee Line...

Where everything is, as per usual, completely fucking out of hand.

08:10
Beddy-byes time. Thank fuck. Hopefully I will get some quality nap time...

09:20
Bing bong! Fuck.

Again, bing bong! Fuck fuck... people who ring the doorbell twice must die!

09:21
Me at the window above the front door, "what do you want?"
Voice from below; "to need to check the electricity..."

Fuck sakes. I trundle down to the front door to let this guy in.

09:23
Right. Back to bed.

10:07
Bing bong! Ah for fuck's sake. Fuck.

10:08
Me at the window above the front door, "what?"
Voice from below; "gotta letter here, needs signing for..."

For fucking hell's cunting fucking sake. I trundle down to the front door to sign for the letter. The neighbour's fucking letter.

12:20
Bing bong!
Fucking fuck fuck fuck for fuck sakes fuck. Fuck.

12:21
Bing bong!
Bing bong!

12:21
"Don't you ever ring this doorbell ever again. And once is enough. If there's somebody here they will come and answer it. Why ring it three times? I'm walking to the front door and you are standing there pushing the button.
I don't care what you're selling. EDF? Go away."

Slams the door.

I may have been a little more brusque than that. I did stop myself from swearing.

Fuck it. Obviously sleeping during the day is just not going to happen.

13:27
Feeling tired so its another attempt at trying to sleep.

19:41
Holy shit!

The sound of Sally stomping up from the front door and yakking on the phone has woken me up. Everything is completely disorientated.

20:06
Gym.

21:37
Jubilee Line.

22:30
24-hour Tesco buying Red Bull.

23:04
Sitting at my desk.

23:13
Is it Tuesday? Or is it Wednesday? I can't work out where we are or what is happening. August? Yes...

There's something very odd when you're absolutely exhausted but just getting started when everyone else is asleep.

I remember when I first came to the UK in 2003, I was working all night on the evening when US forces bombed the hell out of Baghdad.

The 23rd of March 2003...

God, it seems like epochs ago.

In 2003 they would have gone into the club looking like this...

And in 2009 they would have emerged like this below. Although the one on the right would be standing on a box. Obviously.

In January 2003 I remember being drunk in Rupert Street and dancing to Christina Aguilera's Dirrty.

I remember I was in the Shadow / Widow / Shallow Lounge and Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock were there.

I didn't know who they were but the guy I was kind-of seeing at the time recognised them.

He was a shit. Get this - he was a rich fucker from Maida Vale, around 35-ish?! I remember one Saturday afternoon in June he was having a garden party.

So I pitch up and there are a lot of people in open-necked shirts with glasses of champagne going "faw faw faw faw..."

As the afternoon wore on, so the alcohol began to sink pretty quickly. I ended up needing the loo.

I wandered inside to the one just off the front door, opened it and there was Keith (that was his name) getting a gobby from - I can't even remember what his name was.

I remember staggering in the warm afternoon sun out of the house, going home and sleeping. What a fucker. I wonder whatever happened to him?!

23:41
Searching Facebook, Jake, Flickr, Twitter, LinkedIn, MSN... nothing. Maybe Keith shuns the internet?!

23:46
Maybe he's still in the bathroom off the hallway after all these years?! It's really annoying when people don't make themselves more stalker-able.

Oh don't be ridiculous, every one does it. I know you do too.

Monday, 03 August 2009

2009-08-03T23:16:00.007+01:00

09:01
Awake! Ping! Voosh! Pow! Kerching!

09:04
Wandering around the house feeling a little like what it must feel like to be thrown against a brick wall.

09:07
I realise that the man with his van from Tesco is supposed to appear sometime between now and 11am.

I put a wholemeal pita in the toaster which, once finished, will be smeared with as much butter as possible.

09:09
You can imagine how much I was looking forward to that nice, warm and buttery pita because, in fact, we have no butter. The carton is empty. Fuck.
This makes me cry.

Shit. Comedown.

09:13
Sitting on the couch in the lounge in my pyjamas eating dry fucking pita bread. The rest of London is going to or at work.

My hand is still sore. I re-assess my injuries which include:

1/ The roof of my mouth burnt from a pie I ate at the end of Saturday evening that was too hot.
2/ A scratch on my left hand and my knee from when I dived into the road.
3/ The eyelashes on my right eye singed from when I lit a cigarette off the stove at the lesbians' house.
4/ Some scratches on my arm that I don't know where they came from.

09:41
The man from Tesco still hasn't arrived.
I decide to compile a list of depressing comedown songs...

Lucie Silvas - Nothing Else Matters
(A cover of the Metallica song that is actually rather good...)
Brian May - No-one But You
Joe Cocker - With A Little Help From My Friends
I know this is a cliche but listen to the live version of the tune from The Best of Joe Cocker album.

10:05
Ah. The man from Tesco is here.

10:23
Bla bla. I'm going back to bed.

12:04
Wake up.

15:07
Bla bla. Going back to bed.

18:23
Wake up.

20:21
On the way to the gym.

What is this life that's all topsy-turvy? Yes, I am working overnights at work. It doesn't happen often. It's shit. The money's good.

20:45
Running at the gym and I remember that I told you I was going to share my Gaydar test with you - the world's most fool-proof way to spot homosexuals.

Right. I make a mental note to do this later when I am at work.

21:27
Doing some chesty-westy.

22:36
At work.

Right, here's the test...

All homosexual men listen to music. To determine the gayness of someone you will either need to see their CD collection or have access to their iPod or MP3 player.

The outcome is based on a score. A score above 8 means that, without doubt, the man is homosexual.
A score around one or two would indicate heterosexuality.

It's a point for every one of these artists' music that you have in the collection or on the iPod:

Madonna
Kylie Minogue
Belinda Carlisle
Bananarama OR The Bangles (add a point for both)*
Christina Aguilera
The soundtrack / song from a musical (add a point if it's an Lloyd Webber show or Chicago, Hairspray or The Producers)
Tori Amos
ABBA
George Michael
A song / album by a TV talent show winner (i.e. Kelly Clarkson, Leona Lewis, Alexandra Burke etc.)

You're not allowed to fib here... so what is your score? I've tried it with other gays who've scored a whopping great flaming 100%. I scored 9.

The "small" print:
My gaydar test is designed to sniff out boy-gays. Women - straight or gay don't count because it's likely they'll listen to some of these artists.

* = The Bangles / Bananarama count as one because although different bands they're the same sample i.e. 80s nostalgia. The gays love a bit of nostalgia.

See? Genius!

23:01
At work and I already feel shattered. God knows how we're going to get through the next six hours? Fuck.

23:03
As you snuggle into your bed, think of me sitting in a cold mouse-infested office.

23:37
It all now seems like a distant memory. At the weekend the English football season started. That officially signalled the end of summer.

Yes, what summer? Roll on summer 2010. I can't come soon enough...

Don't you love the guy in the green T-shirt. I have absolutely no idea who he is but he's having the time of his life.

23:47
...Yeah. Shitty.

Zonked

2009-08-02T23:43:00.003+01:00

09:02
It's at this point that I realise that things have gone slightly wrong. This is because Liam, who is lying next to me, asks me what the time is?
Fuck. On a sofa bed in the lounge of a flat that belongs to lesbians in Brighton.

Shit.

The story of how I ended up here is a long one and starts, sometime, at Victoria train station.

Somewhere a long the line in Brighton we..

...buy some G&Ts to drink in the park. And then we walk to the grounds where the fun is happening.

Along the way, standing in the window of a backpackers' lodge is a cute guy with a white boa on.

In this picture below, which we'll call Exhibit A, we can Liam showing off the little bombs of alcohol.

Please can we all consider Liam's facial hair. I tell him it makes him look like the Taliban. I'm only joking though... sort of.

Then, this is all a little scatty because er... where were we?!

Oh yeah. We were in this bar - it was a karaoke bar and this old handbag was making a huge fucking noise.

So speaking of old handbags - how many do you think you could make using the leather from this...

I don't even want to know what's in the black bag. A sling perhaps?

The thing with Brighton is that it's the kind of place that makes San Francisco seem like Iran.

Um... what other photos do I have in my bag of tricks? So...

This is the Popstarz tent. I was totally expecting to find London Preppy in here because it's all indie kids dancing to Suede and that guy who's now a little overweight but was with The Smiths.

My stalking gene is crap because I couldn't find him. And the only song I recognised was Hong Kong Garden. And here are two lesbians snogging. Or I don't know if they were a straight boy and girl couple.

In Brighton (this is for you, in America who's maybe never been to Brighton) so there's a pavilion that was once a royal palace and it looks like this...

And then here is the party in the park before it started to piss it with rain.

And these are lesbian smurfs.

I took this because Liam's bum looks good in those jeans.

At some point in the evening we decided to stop random cuties and demand to have our photo taken with them. This is when it started to get messy.

Excuse me bitches but please let's have some respect for my nails in the picture above.

It's Chanel 461 (Blue Satin). Chanel make-up costs the budget of a medium-sized African country but it's worth it. Shitty nail polish like Rimmel just chips and is too runny.

Chanel is like industrial paint and when it's dry you can buff it so that it's almost reflective. Chanel and YSL are the best although YSL don't really do non-feminine stuff.

Anyway, on we plod...

And this is the photo of the night and I'm not going to put silly filters on it so that you can't see the people in it because it would ruin it. (I changed my mind)

Um..

So sometime afterwards I ate something that was too hot and I burnt my mouth and dived into the road and scratched my hand and we ended up in this flat and god knows what.

And that's how Liam and I ended up waking up on a sofa bed in a flat belonging to people who I don't know.

23:11
And that's the story of Brighton and why, I'm now sitting on the couch typing this while still a little zonked.

Tomorrow a normal service will resume. I feel like all my wires are plugged into the wrong sockets and my brain isn't working properly.

Like I've been slapped with something.

23:23
I'm listening to Lucie Silvas. Maybe hanging around with lesbians is why I've taken to this type of music. Breathe In is quite a good song.

Yadda yadda...

23:32
Oh, do you want to hear an amazing story?

So we're in this karaoke club and this old fucking carpet is getting annoying by shouting and singing crap...

And the next minute there's a shout from the back and this bird says she wants to have a go.

So the old bin-liner (illustrated above) sits down and this woman approaches the stage and we're only seeing this because we had the misfortune to be standing near the front.

Anyway, this woman says she's going to sing Duffy's Mercy and the song comes on and this woman absolutely fucking belts it out.

She sings it pitch-perfect and puts the fucking sock in. And the whole bar goes quiet and it was astonishing.

Okay. That's really it.

Do you mind if I go? I'll do it quietly.

Ai!

2009-07-31T23:27:00.001+01:00

Look at these rows of women; sewing, hammering, knitting and generally just getting their shit on.

I told them to work harder and beaver faster to deliver you the latest from er - ...

The bitches.

Tomorrow morning is the deadline I've been given.

I'm sorry if you've made the bloody effort to say hello. But also, my nails have been drying and I, we - er...

Somewhere amongst that crowd of useless cows at sewing machines is the latest (not) blog.

Do you mind if it spends a few hours stewing in the fridge?

(I'm also sorry to make unfortunate jokes at the expense of exploitation during the industrial revolution.)

Me love you one time.

The latest news is coming, promise..

Thursday, 30 July 2009

2009-07-30T22:36:00.010+01:00

07:01
believe is it wake time up . clock alarm I can't (re-arrange and place as necessary)

07:21
On the Jubilee Line on the way to gym and it's fucking pande-fucking-monium. The carriage is shaking from side to side and heaving forward under the weight of the chaos. Look!

07:22
Okay, maybe I'm over-selling the Jubilee Line experience just a little.

...

and the morning passes, gym comes and goes, the train comes and goes and I am on it. And then I am not and it's work and I'm at my desk and people walk past and it's all a blur like when people smudge Vaseline on the cupboard mirror so that when they catch a glance of themselves wanking on the bed, they can imagine the reflection is of someone else...

14:19
Ping!
The new Gay Times magazine wings its way into the office which is always a cause for "a little wee in the panties*".
* = not my words, a colleague's.

[Editorial Aside (And cue the cynicism...)
Doncha love how the Gay Times - a magazine which one assumes proudly serves and reflects the gay community - has dropped the word 'gay' from its name? It's now GT.
Perhaps this is because it wants to appear more mainstream? Or maybe because we're all now post-modern fabulous and no-one really cares whether it was called Gay Times or Suckey-Cockey or Put Your Big Hot Throbbing Nine (okay, we get it...)
Because in the olden days all the homos were falling over themselves to be labelled gay but now not so much. So let's move on. And besides GT is like G&T. And all the homos love pissing it up, so that's okay then.
Cynicism ends...

14:51
Thumbing through the latest Gas Turbine and well, well, well... what have we here then?!

14:52
Ping! Time for some bitchy gossip...

So at the gym there's this guy who basically - well, I'm not going to make assumptions because I haven't actually spoken to him. But that's not for want of trying.

I've smiled and said hello and Liam's tried to say something but nothing. He just walks around in a white vest and conspicuously ignores everyone.

I mean it's a gym for god's sake. You help people, you offer advice and ask them to spot you so that you can look up their shorts and you sniff the bench where they've left a sweaty patch. It's normal.

Except for this guy. Clearly all of this and everyone else is so. utterly. beneath. him.

So you can imagine when I turn to page 60-odd of the latest GigaTonne... A feature on guys who seem to fancy how they look without a top on. And who do we see!?

"I have a good body because I work out at gym and spend all weekend dancing in clubs until Monday morning."

Whadeva.

(Mail me everything you know any of the guys in that feature so we can share The Knowledge. Especially stuff like "I slept with so-and-so who has a trick pelvis and can suck the reflection off a mirror."
foxycoxy@me DOT com)

15:24
Oh yeah, speaking of The Knowledge. Remember last week we were talking about Katie Price's book launch and the man who appeared who was Mary Poppins - practically perfect in every way. He's here...

I said to you - what the fuck do you know? You told me quite a lot. Like that he's from Wales and his name is Peter and...

Do you really want more?!

I think we're all over it now. He's too perfect. Too modelly. We want a bit of rough and madness... So honestly, in your heart-of-hearts, would you take our plucky Peter from Wales or this...

Come on.... Honestly.

You have the choice to be locked up in a log cabin for a week in the remote Scottish highlands and you could only take one, who would you choose?

16:18
Oh. Gay Times was renamed GT back in 2007. Well, that shows how cutting edge we are here at Am Not Blog towers.

(Ohmygod - "Am Not Blog Towers"!? That was so parochial will some please fucken kill me with a yellow Ikea Smegma. Like yesterday already.)

17:21
Watching more television and it's not often I do this. Something called "Deal or No Deal" is on. Have you watched it?

It doesn't quite have the 'oh-my-good-goddam-fucking-fuck' intensity of Project Runway USA, in fact it's a just a guy getting other people to open a bunch of shoeboxes.

There's an old phone on a table and sometimes it rings and Noel Edmonds (the host of this gameshow) pretends to talk to someone called The Banker although it could be Kermit-the-fucking-Frog.

17:51
Um. Oh dear. Some old guy just lost out on winning £250,000. This "Make Me A Deal, Dummy" show is hectic.
Oh god, I think I've been sucked in.

18:56
Did you know that Celine Dion's song "All By Myself" borrows very heavily from Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto #2 in C minor? So much so that if you look in the sleeve notes, Rach is credited.

19:12
Oh yeah, speaking of classics and The Proms and stuff... Would anyone like me to take them on a date to the Royal Albert Hall.
The program is here.
You choose the concert, I'll get the tickets. (Seriously)

20:33
Maybe I was a little harsh earlier on the ice-queen who goes to our gym.

Okay, fair enough. I apologise.

I'm really really sorry, I apologise unreservedly.

I offer a complete and utter retraction.

The imputation was totally without basis in fact, and was in no way fair comment, and was motivated purely by malice, and I deeply regret any distress that my comments may have caused you, or your family, and I hereby undertake not to repeat any such slander at any time in the future.

(Stop it...)

22:10
Oh shit, I said I was going to show you the best Gaydar test in the whole wide world. Bollocks. Okay, maybe tomorrow.

23:31
Can I say something - and you're not allowed to ask but today I was talking to someone and we were laughing and sharing a story and - this was earlier this evening... and can I tell you that - er.

To: You Know Who You Are...

I really really really really really really really really like you. In fact I am counting the days until I am standing next to you again. Tonight I will hug the pillow and pretend it's you.

23:34
Schmaltz. Me? I don't do mushy-lovey shit, don't be fucking ridiculous. I don't know what you've been reading to get that idea?!

23:27
I've over-used the "!?" combination today. Tomorrow less will be more.

The Promise

2009-07-29T23:06:00.003+01:00

23:08
Tomorrow I will be all over you like an invading force. Shock and awe.
Tomorrow I will be beautiful. We will be beautiful together.

Tomorrow I will regale you with stories of lust and woe, joy and despair. And that's just the fucking Jubilee Line.

Tomorrow I will show you a test I once devised to find out if people are gay. It works 100%.

Tomorrow I will play you the Rach #3 while blind-folded and sitting on hot pokers at a piano that only has three notes - two black, one white and a green one.*
(* = This offer to subject to availability)

Tomorrow we will share a secret. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow - you're only a day away.

Tomorrow. And Tomorrow. And Tomorrow. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
Excuse me but I wrote that without having to check it but I know it's right. Thank you, I will take the pat on the head.

Tomorrow we will share a secret and a laugh.

Tomorrow Never Dies. When Tomorrow Comes. Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

I Close My Eyes and Count To Ten
Son Of A Preacher Man.

But enough of Dusty Springfield.

Tomorrow will be a day like no other. That's because today's been shite. Which, if you think about it, kind of gives away what...

What's not labour the point too much...

Project Tuesday

2009-07-28T23:51:00.001+01:00

10:02
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up! That's because the doorbell has rung.

It's the landlord and he has this incredible knack of being on time so when he says he's going to arrive at 10am, the doorbell fucking goes at 10am.

Isn't being woken by the doorbell the most intrusive thing in the whole world?

11:05
Holy shit. I really hope the landlord doesn't venture into the lounge. He will not like what I've done to his carpet...

This an illustration of the dangers of propping a glass of red wine on the couch while you're watching A Fish Called Wanda.

How on earth am I going to manage to get that stain out? Fuck!

13:24
Watching the TV where some German swimmer is apparently now better than Michael Phelps.

All I will say is...

... hands off bitches, he's mine. I bagged shotgun first.

Go and find your own swimmers.

14:52
Oh shit. Sorting through some photos on the camera and remember that last night I also dropped a glass of red wine in the kitchen.

In our house, when you do something like smash a glass you grab the camera before you grab the dustpan and brush.

God we're so creative. In our house we eat beauty.

In our house we shit design.

The neighbours look at our house, shake their heads a little and look on longingly. "God, if only we could be a little more like Bobs and Sally in that house."

We allow this philistine hero worship to happen outside not because it makes us feel important but because it gives them something in their life.

(cont. on pg. 94)

18:13
Shit.

The carpet needs vacuuming. The cupboard needs tidying and I'm not even going to start on the revolting duvet cover.

And the curtains!? Are they on purpose?

21:34
Ohmygod. Have you watched Project Runway USA?

What utter fabulous nonsense.

Some silver-haired man with this weird mid-Atlantic drawl keeps walking into a room full of wannabe fashion moguls going "hullooo diseeners..."

And then, in unison, they all go "hullloooo Tim."

21:45
Tonight on Project Runway (Season 4) they have to design and make some suit and then they have to show it bla bla.

One of the designers has the nerve to make a jacket from - er, fuck knows what the faaa-bric was and one of the judges goes "ohmygod, that construction makes me wanna reach for the Xanax."

And the irony of a room full of people designing clothes to make people look beautiful, fabulous, ohmygod, "I wanna feel beauty and inner peace with this design", "holy mother-fucking-crap your design is just so fucking pure and goddam fucking beautiful." etc.

21:51
On Sky News we have pictures some starving family in Somalia eating food out of clay bowls as the flies circle a newborn. The reporter very grimly intones, "it is an upsetting scene though not uncommon..."

On Project Runway we have a model walking down the catwalk with (goddam-mother-fucking) safety pins in the sleeve of his jacket. The judge shrieks "ohmyfuckingod, that is the most hideous goddam-mother-fucking thing I have ever seen. I want to gouge my eyes out with a rusty fucking nail.

21:56
Is there a Project Runway boxset? I must have then all!

22:57
Jack has won this evening's task. His first words after victory are....

Well, they've been bleeped.
Though I suspect "ohmygoddam-mother-fucking-god" is probably not far off the mark.

23:03
I decide to live my goddam-motherfucking-ohmygod life more like the goddam-fuck-mother-shit contestants on fucking Project Fucking Runway.

All I want is to be the most beautiful motherfucking person in the whole goddam motherfucking world.

Fuck.

23:07
Oh yeah. I need to show you how I got the red wine stain out of the carpet.

Fuck. Spank me laters. You're beautiful.

23:19
And don't you forget it.

Monday moaning

2009-07-27T23:29:00.001+01:00

Woke up and then went to the gym.

At the gym, me and Chris and er - you've never met him before so let's call him um. This is a process of democracy so I'm going to let you name XXXXXX

To guide you...

XXXXX is 23
XXXXX is built like a brick shithouse
...?

There's not much else to tell you about XXXXX.

Anyway we do arms - an exercise that Chris has made up that's so hectic - were I to show you, you would die in pain.

And here are some pictures...

A Bentley, a Lamborghini and a Mercedes McLaren - outside the Dorchester.

I was in the Dorch to visit Uncle Toblerone.

We all call him Uncle Toblerone because all he will ever buy you is fucking Toblerone, from airport duty free. It's his way of saying "you're my special nephew."

He arrives at the Dorchester in a Bentley. All we get is fucking two-day-old Toblerone. Dickhead.

He's lonely. No-one likes him.

Though he is slightly more respectable than my dad's side of the family. My dad's brother is a poor white and lives in a shack.

His second wife is an alcoholic and her first born (who's about 40 years old) is a crack addict.

I haven't seen my dad's side of the family in years.

They did used to visit on Christmas Day. My dad's brother would pitch up and say "it's Christmas, why not", which was cue for him to pour himself a tumbler of Scotch.

I think one Christmas my uncle may have given my mother a vibrator. That was the last time they visited at Christmas.

There is nothing hotter than a hot guy in Sainsbury's buying condoms.

So hot.

And there's nothing worse than...

dropping a beautiful glass of South African Cab Sav onto the kitchen floor.

Or should that be "a glass of beautiful"... No-one's sure.

I just found a photo I was going to show you on Friday...

I was painting my nails and drinking Stella.

No, don't read anything into it. I sometimes paint my nails. I love sequins.

Sometimes you may have seen me dressed in women's clothing.

I'm sorry to say that it means nothing. I am a guy, I want to be a guy, I am happy being a guy.

Who says guys can't wear nailpolish? Sometimes it looks nice. I was experimenting with red. Usually, I wear dark blues, greens or matte - my favourite.

The Cedric Gervais remix of De'Lacey's song "Hideaway" makes me feel fabulous.

Women have built empires of money on the backs of saying they look fabulous, why shouldn't guys enjoy some of that too? You can't say that he doesn't look cool...

So.

Here are some timings... You can fit them in, as you see appropriate...

09:21
11:05
13:06
14:49
17:53
19:14

Oh god. I feel like the student who's had an entire week to finish an assignment but then realised that at the last minute he has nothing really to say.

Fine. Mark me a C-. Tomorrow I will give you an A.

Saturday, 25 July 09

2009-07-25T14:18:00.000+01:00

14:51
So I'm remembering back to stuff that I said I was going to tell you.

And it was January 2003 and I was in my last week of living in Cape Town. I decided that weekend to have one last blow-out. Eating, boozing, clubbing etc.

I was still living with my parents at the time, their house a long way from the scene.

If I knew it was going to be a heavy weekend I would either sleep on a friend's couch, use a hotel nearby that had a hospitality arrangement with work or - disgusting but typical I know - go to the sauna and sleep in a cabin.

That weekend, thanks to the work arrangement, I was staying at the hotel in the Waterfront nearby.

So it was Saturday night and I was out at a club called 55.

It was an amazing place because as a club it was incredible and albeit gay, it used to attract a lot of "straight" guys. You know the ones, who you usually find in the loos at around 3am.

Anyway, it was at 55 that I met this guy called Sergio.

We did the usual thing, eyed each other, started kissing and bla bla. We decided to leave and headed back to the hotel I was staying at.

The first and last time I had scored while staying there. It was a double win because Sergio was so hot.

He was quite a bit shorter then I was, had dark hair and was around two years younger than me.

I remember he was very tanned and had on one of those Amercian Apparel-style V-neck T-shirts that cuts low, exposing a really good chest.

The night with Sergio was the best way to end my time in Cape Town.

It was so nice to wake up in this posh hotel with his hot guy and we talked and etc.

He said he was studying IT and worked at a coffee shop on Kloof Street.

I told him I was going to London that Tuesday and he said that was a pity I was going but we swapped numbers anyway.

He said he'd always wanted to see London so perhaps we would meet up again.

Anyway, at around midday-ish we decided to call it quits - he showered - and I said I would give him a lift back to his flat.

I did, we sat in the car outside, chatted and kissed some more. I remember thinking how nice it would be to simply just go back to the hotel with him and spend the rest of our lives in the room together.

We said a final good-bye, he got out and I drove home with a smile from ear to ear. What a brilliant last Saturday night and Sunday morning in Cape Town.

I remember thinking at the time; "that was the best send-off, now I'm ready to go to London...!"

That was Sunday 12 January. By the 14th, I was in London and less than a week later Sergio was dead.

He had been bound up, his throat slit, shot in the head and left to die in a pool of blood.

I remember getting an e-mail from a friend in Cape Town at the time; "have you seen this hectic shit?"

The story detailed a gruesome crime that had happened.

Sometime on January 20th, two men went into a house operating as a gay massage parlour and killed eights guys by tying them up, knifing them, slitting their throats, shooting them and then dousing them in petrol.

Of the photos of some of those who'd been killed, I instantly recognised Sergio.

He was known as Dean and he was actually a rent boy. The house I dropped him off at was the massage parlour.

To this day, I don't know how I feel about it all.

It wouldn't be fair for me to try and romanticise it any more than what it was. We met in a club, we left early and we spent 12 hours together.

It's upsetting I guess but then again it was a one-night stand.

He smiled a lot. We kissed a lot. He seemed happy and I remember we both agreed that we'd had a great time with each other, even though it was brief.

To remember that and then read the following - to this day, I still can't work out what emotion I feel...

From the Cape Argus:
"When 22-year-old Sergio de Castro was three, his mother left home. His father died four years later, leaving Sergio with only one close relative-his half-brother Dane, born of his father's second marriage.

Apparently, Sergio played musical chairs with relatives who didn't really want him until he finally went his own way, ending up in Cape Town in 2000. At the time of the killings, he was sharing a flat in Sea Point with a friend.

Sergio was quite talented, playing the flute and guitar, singing in a church choir, speaking Portuguese and learning Hebrew, but what he wanted to do, was web design. He had completed a course at a computer college, but was unable to find work, being told he was too inexperienced.

Sergio had worked at Sizzlers in the past, but had quit because he had had enough. Two months prior to the killings, he had gone back-out of financial desperation, his flatmate later discovered. Sergio owed the computer college R13,000 (approx. $US 2,2030), and his job at a coffee shop wasn't paying the bill.

All his friends denied that he had a drug problem, only a need to be loved. Sergio's cousin, Ricardo Afonfo, said this in the Cape Argus of January 19, 2004: 'One thing that really amazed me was how many friends he had that cared about him - they were really his family.'"