Wash, rinse, repeat

It's New Year's Eve.

Yes, I made resolutions. I know that's a bit sad.

Last year my resolutions were:

1/ To never wear a pair of socks with holes in them.
Done.

2/ To not incur ANY unnecessary bank charges i.e. interest fees (I bounce my credit cards from one 0% introductory offer to another) or overdraft fines etc.
Done.

With those two done, I guess that means it's been a good year.

I am going to have to think of some resolutions for 2008.

I suppose one of them is going to have to be to buy more clothes. And maybe go to the cinema more.

Actually - do you want to know what's really going on?

Well, I thought that Tuesday was New Year's Eve and Wednesday was January 1. So this morning I woke up with a bit of a shock.

As I write I have the washing machine on, the dishwasher on, bags of rubbish in the hall, the vacuum cleaner's out etc. Basically I have one day to sort everything out.

This is wankey I know but I reckon you can't take anything from the old year into the new.

So empty your bins and clean and just do everything you've been meaning to do as if today is your last, which it technically is.

Now, the washing machine's ending and it needs a new load and I have to carry on tidying up and throwing away and ohmygod my existence is so mundane.

I think to counter that, tonight I'm going to hang around in a sling in a Vauxhall sex club and wait for 40 hairy sweaty bears to come and invade like Poland.

Happy New Year, champagne, kiss-kiss, bla bla whatever.

(Disclaimer: I do not go to sex clubs in Vauxhall or anywhere else. And I don't hang around in slings. And hairy bears aren't my type. And I'm a top anyway. Okay, too much information. I'm going.)

Liste Bobbys der guten Filme

After mentioning why I didn't like Shortbus I really don't want this blog to turn into Bobby's Film Review but...

As you know, I've been working for the last week and to kill time and take my mind off things I've been catching up on movies I missed this year.

So in a nutshell...

Shortbus: Didn't like it at all. Tedious, smug and unnecessary hardcore sex.

Basic Instinct 2: The biggest pile of crap to keep me mesmerised for two hours.
Seeing Sharon Stone stroll past the Shadow Lounge and Escape Bar (two gay clubs in London's Soho) to go to some seedy sex party was the high-point of the film. Her dirty-talk made me squirm though.

The Simpson's Movie: Loved it. Realised why I love The Simpsons. Cool in-jokes and just so much fun.

TransAmerica: Yeah, pretty good though some of the pacing was a little odd. Slightly depressing that the movie was considered "edgy" for "mainstream" audiences which it very definitely isn't.

Transformers: Standard Hollywood blockbuster bollocks. Yeah, it was entertaining. Yeah er.. whatever. Not bitter that I spent money to watch it.

Das Leben der Anderen / The Lives of Others: Ohmygod. Oh. My. God.
Instantly becomes one of the greatest films I have ever watched.

(The actual reason for this post.)

It is just incredible. Amazing. Wow. Set in East Germany in the 80s it is an astonishing story and a breathtaking piece of cinema. I can so see why people are calling it one of the greatest German films ever made.

Have you seen it? Am I over-cooking the egg with my praise?

It starts off slowly, it whispers along - there are no bangs and kerpows! but by the end I was just like I wanted to applaud the TV. It also left me in tears.

But like proper snivelling tears.

I see it's billed as a thriller which I guess, on paper, it is. But it's so much more than that.

Don't go to IMDB.com and read the plot or try and watch it if you're in a hurry. Go and rent it, make some time and immerse yourself in it.

It is incredible.

When you go to the movie store, which is what you're looking for:

Wow. It's just wow. Amazing and wow all in one.

Panic stations

Oh, I'm having a real huge fucking crisis. This is an emergency.

Actually, it's not. It's patheticness on a gargantuan scale but maybe you can understand.

So I fly out to Cape Town in February and I am going to be there for Cape Town Pride.

Now Cape Town Pride is like any Pride.

It's basically a chance for a whole bunch of gays to get together, wear as little as possible and flounce around in front of each other while using it all as an excuse to take drugs during the day.

This will be the first Cape Town Pride I am going to in. my. life. So you wanna be / look / feel good, yeah?

I have been surfing the official website to see what level of talent there is and I have to say that this is about the limit.

I have whited-out the faces - it just feels the right thing to do?!

So this is what I'm up against...

And do you know what? I know I already look better than the four guys in the green hotpants.

It will probably be the only time I ever attend Cape Town Pride so I want to look the best I can.

However.

I walk through the double doors of the gym, like I did this evening, and the motivation just drains from every pour of my body.

I have no idea what the fuck it is... and it's really terrible.

Sitting down at a machine I yawn, look around and just feel this overwhelming sense of apathy.

I left work today and am not back until the second week of January.

Somehow I have to find the energy and the motivation to hit the gym hard for the next ten days. I have to find the motivation from somewhere.

I have 6 fucken weeks. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

This is hopefully going to be one of the best holidays I have had in ages so I really wanna look good.

For the three weeks I am there I am pretty sure I'm going to be spending most days on the beach. Clifton 3rd beach more specifically.

When they do surveys of the best beaches in the world, Clifton is usually featured.

I am going to be spending three weeks on a beach amongst this...

Thinking about this / looking at this picture really stresses me out.

Sometimes I really do envy straight people - straight girls excuse so much!

Sometimes I wish I could just turn off the Body Nazi switch.

Sometimes I really do wish I could just be happy to look like these two in a Speedo...

Ah, whatever.

We'll find the inspiration somewhere and try our best. Too much of this self-loathing can get so tedious.

Besides, I can't think about this any more because it's making me panic.

Where's the baby?

I am so tired that I fell asleep while standing up on the Tube on the way home from work this afternoon.

Losing grip, it was the sound of my iPod crashing onto the carriage floor that woke me up.

The smash of the plastic protective covering coming loose got me awake and startled everyone else nearby. I don't know why it amuses me when that happens.

People are so jumpy.

There's not much to tell really (I am so exhausted I'm falling asleep now) so instead, hands up who hands Bobby's Picture Gallery?

Yey, yey, yey!

Here are some of the pics I've snapped over the last few days.

Is this not the most trashiest licence plate you've ever seen? The number is CD5 1CAN except they've arranged the font so that it spells "COS I CAN".

It was pasted on a garish red Audi TT.

I reckon the person who owns this car is an tanorexic female estate agent who wears Dolce & Gabbana but can't hold a knife and fork properly.

This person is three simple letters: N.Q.U.

I think this was the day before Christmas Eve. It was so foggy it stayed like this all day. Two words describe this type of weather; De. Pressing.

Hello! Where the fuck is the baby? What the fuck is the story with this? It was just lying there.

Maybe the mother was a hideous garish woman (i.e. the Audi owner) and the baby thought "what a fucken creature is this bitch who's pushing me around" and maybe the baby made a run for freedom?! Huh?

This is the best thing about staying in London over Christmas. Most people have fucked off by Christmas Eve so each bag of your shopping gets its own seat on the Tube.

Yes, my gym togbag is asking me to pass it a copy of the Metro behind me.

So this is the set from my Christmas movie which you watched here.

Do you have any idea how long it took to get all that tomato sauce off the fucking doors?

And check the psychotic hand print on the door on the right-hand side. See, we go to great lengths to make things look realistic at Bobby's Movie Studio.

In one of the snippets in the movie we see bloody pouring over the lens of the mobile phone camera.

Basically put the phone under a glass dish in the bath and pour. Another goddam mess. I tell you - the bathroom still stinks of Ragu.

Oh yeah - and finally...

Have a look at this stack of hot mess.

The doe-eyed stare and that stomach is hot.

I would like this gentleman to share my bed with me so if you know who he is please could you send him along. Thanks, as always.

I'm off to bed and go and wait...

Yule be sorry

So remember I said that Christmas was going to be pretty horrorific for me?

What with staying at home, stranded with nowhere to go, stuck in the middle of winter I wondered what the hell could go wrong?

These two girlies below didn't seem to think that anything could go wrong, at least.

But don't just take my and their word for it.

Without further ado, here is my annual festive video message (sorta like the one from the Queen, a bit)...



You really didn't think I was going to strip off, wrap myself in tinsel and mouth the words to a carol did you?

Yeah, it's December 25th. Merry Christmas bitches.

With thanks to my mobile phone, Krszysztoph Penderecki and a tube of Sainbury's sun-ripened tomato paste.

"Your husband's getting fucked in the ass..."

(A once-off in an occasional series...)

Oh no. Seriously.

I have just... er, okay - this is going to be the most. Right, I have thought about posting this and fuck-it.

Do you know what?

Okay, the thing is, is that you've mentioned it a few times and other people have gone "ohmygod, it's really good" but - can I be honest?

I have just watched Shortbus and I thought it wasn't very good.

Sitting down to watch it I hoped that I would like it but I just...

Okay - my main problem is the film seems to suggest that meaningful sex - in this case, group sex - is basically the cure for everything.

Take the gay couple - there was no development from him trying to commit suicide to them getting back together. Did the former hustler ever explain why he was stood naked in a window in the flat opposite surrounded by candles?

Why didn't we get to see any of that? We should have though...

Some parts were amusing; the nurse on suicide watch and the dominatrix's name, for example, but for the most part I just felt like it was being too profound for itself.

It was a little too ironic that the sex therapist had never had an orgasm. And as soon as she admitted it I thought; "right, so that's how the movie's going to end then..." And it did.

The sex scenes (all of them) I just thought were - okay, if you look at it the other way and removed all the biology from them, i.e. no erect willies / penetration etc. it would go from being a lame to an awful movie.

And that's not to say that the sex scenes spice it up / make it any good - I just mean that including them turns the movie into some sort of porno-style film with a meaning. And porn films are at their worst when they try to be anything other than a porn movie.

Maybe trying to categorise mainstream vs porn is doing exactly what the film suggests I shouldn't do. I.e. "hard-core sex on film doesn't mean porn", "straight is only a word" etc. but ... I dunno.

I'm kinda gutted that I didn't like it.

Who knows?

Aside from that - what also irritated me about it was that some bits were oddly edited.

The pacing seemed off and it also felt like they'd over-shot (filmed too much, from too many angles). It would seem that in the editing process they just couldn't bear / bare (!) to not include everything they filmed.

For example, in the scene where the sex therapist Sonia kisses the host of Shortbus - you see that from 7 angles in about 10 seconds.

One of the (obvious) themes in the movie is voyeurism and if you're going to be "voyeuristic" with a camera you can do it far more effectively than shooting something from many different angles.

Okay I'm going to stop. If you've seen this movie please convince me that I'm wrong and that I should be loving it.

But why? I just don't get it.

How to spot a gay

Continue to read this post to find the Ultimate Gaydar Test which features towards the end.

The festive season comes but once a year. Which is fucken good because if I were to carry on like this every day of the year I would be the size of a house...

Travelling to Leeds on Thursday morning I thought "fuck it, why not..."

And then for lunch yesterday I just thought "why the fuck not?"

Just incase you weren't sure what this mess is - it's a baked potato with baked beans and whole fucking load of grated cheese.

Don't the plastic knife and fork just add a touch of class?

After this week's nightmare shoot we decided to go and have a drink. Alcohol in vast quantities? Why the fuck not...

So we're sitting around and a colleague (who I once went out with but we're still friends) leaves his iPod lying on the table. I pick it up.

Do you know in that drunken haze, when you're just quiet and everyone around you is making a noise?

Well I was in that haze and looking at colleague (who shall now be named as Diva - cos he is one...) and I just thought "god, what the hell did I ever see in you?"

I'm also thumbing through his iPod, looking at the tracks and thinking "god, you're so gay."

I then had a stroke of genius.

From what I can remember I have managed to create a list. It's purely a guide, of course, but it's a good litmus test. A kind of Gay-o-meter test.

One out of ten is a Chuck Norris score.
Ten out of ten is a Roger De Bris score. Basically.

So how many of these artists' songs do you have on your 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 a Lloyd Webber show)
• Tori Amos
• ABBA
• George Michael
• A song / album by a TV talent show winner (i.e. Kelly Clarkson, Leona Lewis etc.)

I think this is the ultimate gaydar test - I am going to copyright it.

If you score above nine there is pretty sure chance that you're gay. A score of one or below means that you're (most probably) straight.

Think about it. If there's someone who you may suspect is gay - pick up their iPod/MP3 player and see.

You're not allowed to fib here... but what is your score? Mine is 9 and I am a gay.

Colleague is gay and his score was a whopping great big flaming 100%.

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.

I think I may have invented what thousands have wanted for years. I think I may have invented the world's first fool-proof gaydar.

Redrum

So the harsh reality of the C-word kicks in. No, not Cape Town but Christmas.

As you may know, I am working on Christmas Day. And Boxing Day. And both days after that.

My housemates are packing up and preparing to go to their families for two weeks, until the new year. Friends are heading home to be with loved ones.

I, however, am going to be left all to myself.

Bobby will be waking up on Christmas morning alone in a big house, all on his own (major elicit for sympathy, please...)

Desolate passageways in a large house. During the winter months?

What the fuck could go wrong?

What, indeed.

Do you know - Christmas is only a day. So what if I have no-one to unwrap presents with. So what if all the presents under our little tree are ones to me, from me.

It's not going to be that bad. And besides on Christmas Day evening I will be at work doing fuck-all with other people.

Oh, this is a boring whinge. Anyone else not doing anything or waking up alone on Christmas morning?

If so, then come around to my place and we can spend Christmas eve in the lounge and make tents with the furniture.

We can watch DVDs and eat chocolate. I'll get some little bottles of champagne which we can drink with straws and if we like each other then we can make out in front of the radiator.

Instead of stuffing the turkey let's stuff each other. Innit.

It starts now

On 19th February 2008 I will get on an Airbus A340 that will take me and a few hundred other people to Cape Town.

It is the fifth time I will have been, five years since I came to the UK.

It will be the first time I have flown Virgin Atlantic too.

Theoretically I should be very excited but I'm not. I just don't know why. Maybe it's because I haven't had more than 6 hours' sleep for the last week.

Maybe it's because I haven't been to gym since Sunday.

I started to write about the few years before I left Cape Town for London, of all the crap that was going on in my life and I just found that it became a little difficult.

I want to carry on because I want to have it all out of my system by the time I get onto that airplane.

Next June I turn 30. This is the last time I will have to kill all those ghosts that haunt me.

This will be the last time to put all that shit to rest. I don't want it from now on.

Every time I have been back it's been fun, it's been a holiday.

I'd go to the beach, go out with friends and get drunk.

This time there's going to be one more thing...

This time, come February 19th, when I get onto that plane I am going to look the fucken hottest I have ever looked in my life.

I will go back to all the clubs I used to go to when I was overweight and unhappy.

Those times when I felt like the blob on the dancefloor are going to be vanquished (I used the word!) and replaced by the new(ish) me.

I want aquaintences who I haven't seen for ages to ask, "fuck-me, have you been working out?"

"You fucken betcha baby" is what I won't say! But I'll have to bite my tongue really hard not to utter it.

So why does it matter so much?

When I left I was in a bad shape, physically and just everythingly. Do you know when you just need to get away from a place for a time?

I'm now ready to go back properly and unfuck up all my shit.

One of the places I am definitely going to - to unfuck up my shit - is the city's sauna. I know I've pointed you to this before, but again, here's why.

I am going to be like Van Helsing with his big wooden stake and just slam it through the heart of all those bad memories.

Okay, now I am getting excited about going to Cape Town.

This is going to be one big fucken huge muther-fucker of an adventure.

I have two months to get into the best shape mentally and physically.

While it may be two months (fuck) before I get onto the Airbus, the journey starts right now.

I'm really glad you're going to be here for the ride.

Bitches, a journey beckons us...


Keptun is the label for Cape Town aka The Adventure. I've spelled it Keptun because that's how the locals say it.

Jumps over the lazy dog

So yeah. I get to work yesterday with a massive hangover after our Christmas party on Monday night but that's okay.

And then everything starts to go wrong.

Right now I am so tired I can't be bothered to write complete sentences so:

1/ Filming in Leeds (thanks for suggestions for boxing music, innit...)

2/ Filming over-runs, last train leaves Leeds at 8.30pm (!) - it's now 10pm, Tuesday night and Bobby is stuck

3/ Oh... I can't even be bothered to type this but basically I am in the same clothes I was in yesterday. Thank god for cheap Boots toothbrushes and toothpaste.

I have been running around so I smell and tomorrow at 6.30am I will be on a train back to Leeds. I had to come back to London this morning to do some more work down here before going back up north.

It's fucking with my gym schedule and er, my life actually.

I thought of a few things while lying in my clothes (pyjamas) in the (cold) hotel room.

The most unattractive quality in a guy is to be dirty. Or just lazy when it comes to their appearance. There's just no excuse I think.

Guys with smelly willys. Guys whose feet stink.

Actually, my biggest turn-off is guys who have long fingernails with bands of black underneath the ends of them, filled with grime. That's the most disgusting thing in the world.

I was also thinking that I've never sucked a guy's toe / foot.

She has though...

I also think it's quite sexy to swap underwear with other guys who you're close to - like boyfriends etc.

Actually - while i think of this - go to iTunes and search for the aussieBum video podcast. They're so lame.

They're designed for the same people who get a thrill when they page through the Abercrombie catalogue with their tongue and a hard-on.

That's it for now.

The quick brown fox jumps

We had a work party last night to celebrate er, well - for no reason at all.

It was supposed to be a Christmas party but because everyone pretends their too cool for such things we just called it a "team dinner".

Well. The place I work at is renowned for being somewhere that is generally infested with too many Jews and poofs so it couldn't really be a proper Christmas party anyway.

But once the crackers were pulled we found paper hats. And of course who am I to say no to wearing a crown?

Yes, I had too much to drink.
Yes, I ended up breakdancing (or trying to...) in the restaurant.
No, I haven't got a hangover.

I suspect this is because I drank a litre of water before I went to bed last night.

This because there's a new 2-litre Evian bottle on the bookshelf that is half full (or "half empty" of course, depending on your psycho-sociographic perception of measurements as a result of your current cognitive attitude towards this wordy bollocks 'n shit.)

So can we all just agree that 2008 is going to be a brilliant year?

Okay, I'm sitting here when I should be going to work, trying to think of something funny to say when I should be er, going to work.

Yeah, here's a picture of an airplane leaving Heathrow.

Oh - and one other thing...

If you can think of a song that would edit well with a film to do with boxing / punching could you let me know. Or leave a comment.
And Eye Of The Tiger doesn't count. Innit.

This is not just food...

Okay. I think it's time I came clean about something.

To look at me you wouldn't notice it but something has developed over the last few months that I think I need to have seen to.

At the moment it's not impacting negatively on my life at all but it has the potential to.

Right. Deep breathe.

I am Bobby and I am addicted to M&S food.

(M&S stands for Marks & Spencer, a British retailer who apparently pride themselves on making "quality" clothes and food, amongst other stuff...)

And this is the problem.

I lay in bed earlier and fantasised about their food, it is that good.

This morning I had my protein shake and made my way to the M&S nearby. I find myself biting my fingernails when I walk through the aisles because I want everything.

Their ready meals are like the Rolls-Royce of ready meals.

I buy this for lunch:

Can we all just consider the description of it please?

"Chicken breast strips with broccoli, courgettes and spinach with a Parmesan cheese sauce and pine nuts, served with egg pasta."

I have counted at least 20 groups on Facebook dedicated Marks & Spencer food. I think that I may have to join one of them.

Perhaps the "M&S adverts make me hungry for food I can't afford" because here's the but...

Marks & Spencer is fucken expensive.

I really don't know where my obsession is going to lead but I really hope I don't end up fat and broke.

I must keep on at the gym and I am keep eating small meals regularly and I must keep low on carbs.

If I can just stick to those rules everything will be okay.

Marks & Spencer food, please will you marry me?

The company do these adverts on TV that have variously been described as bordering on "food porn."

I'm not going to post the video here because it will just tempt me and I don't know if I'm strong enough.

If you click on the picture you'll go to one of the adverts on YouTube.

Hello, don't you just want to spunk all over that spongey fruity compote thingy, which you'll see towards the end of the video?

I am just getting ready for 2008, to hit the gym really hard and the last thing I need is a food obsession. Oh, this couldn't have come at a worse time.

I have to stop now because I can't think about this food anymore. Enough.

Insert title here

I know, I know.

I guess a blog is a bit like a pet and you have to look after it and treat it well and be nice to it.

If this was a young child I'd be done for abuse and neglect. For the last few days I have basically been fighting wars.

Wars with HR, wars with payroll and wars with Camden council (do you have any idea how difficult it is to get a replacement lid for your dustbin without having to pay for it?)

I am tired and wounded and the battles are not over. I fully anticipate winning the war though.

Can I just describe one of the battles to you? (Just nod and say you care...)

I was paid some money for something I did at work except the payroll department overpaid me. I wrote to my boss and said "I've been given too much money."

She said; "oh - well keep it as a gesture of thanks for your hard work."

Now the payroll department have realised their error and have deducted it from my pay check without telling me.

Please can you imagine the anger / paperwork this has created. I really, really fucken hate accountants.

Listen - reading this is even boring me too. I am devoid of inspiration because of the recent 14-hour workdays.

Will you forgive me if I just crawl back to my bed to listen to my iPod and sleep?

In the meantime can I show you my latest boyfriend?

If anyone knows who this guy is, could they send him to me right away.

A thousand thanks.
(And ten thousand apologies for being so boring, insipid and dull.)

Step kick ball-change knee kick

Today was much better than the dog's breakfast that was yesterday, thank you to whoever listened to my plea.

I had to sit for about four hours in a theatre while we were filming something. There, sat in the dark at the back, as the company rehearsed on stage, I got really emotional.

My mum's a professional dance choreographer and I would spend hours sat at the back of this theatre in Cape Town doing my homework and drawing pictures of cars.

This while my mum would sit at the front screaming and shouting at these men and woman in lycra.

My school books were always full of glitter and the occasional sequin. There were always costumes draped over just about every chair at home.

The biggest production my mum worked on was A Chorus Line. Sometimes she would dance in the final number herself to make up the numbers if they were odd.

I can still hear her in my head going "step, kick goddamit!" Or "girls, kick like you mean it".

When all the other kids had to recite poetry for English I did "...knew every step right off the bat, said I can do that!" (A song from the show).

I wanted to be on the stage. I wanted to dance but my dad always refused.

There's something about the smell of the theatre that is just magical. The lights going down and the make-up, the smoke and lights and waiting in the wings.

Those smells, that feeling gets under your skin and stays there.

I think this is all happening in the run-up to me turning 30. When you turn 30 all of these dreams start to evaporate.

I never wanted to be an actor - I just wanted to work in the theatre. I just wanted to be part of that magic.

After I left home my dad began to soften and ended up being drafted in as a designer on the production for Cats and Phantom of the Opera when they came to Cape Town.

By this stage I was living in London.

I really wish that maybe things had been different. Being in the entertainment industry I have friends who tread the boards in the West End.

I look at them and I think "I too could have been a contender". Of course I have never said it.

God knows where this post ends but I just wanted to say all of that.

My jazz hands would be been the best fucken jazz hands in the whole goddam show.

Seething

No offence if it's your birthday today but I think 11 December 2007 is going to go down as one of the shittiest days this year - which is saying something given that the year ends in two weeks.

I don't really believe in star signs and good or bad luck because I always think of a quote the golfer Gary Player once said.

He said "the more I practice the luckier I get..." which I really believe.

However, if there is a God or if there is such a thing as bad luck, today it shat all over my sad little life.

Five good things that happened today:
1/ Er...
2/ That's it.

Five bad things that happened today:
1/ HR have fucked my overtime up again. In blunt terms it means the £1,500 I was expecting on December 15th (that's when we get paid) will not be paid until 15th January. I don't want it then - I want it now before Christmas. Fuckers, fuckers, cunts. I hope they get infested with the clap.

2/ I learn that I've been pulled off something and moved to work on another project. It means I am working - repeat working, on the following days:

• 25 December
  
• 26 December
• 27 December
• 28 December

3/ Someone dropped a tripod on my foot.

4/ I've only just got home (it's 23:20)

5/ The printer at work doesn't work. Actually - this is a small thing but it was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Do you know when you battle to get to work because some fucker had too much garlic the night before. And then the train is delayed.

And then you drop your brand new iPod. And your ticket at the barrier doesn't work. And then you realise you forgot your wallet at home.

And then you get told you're going to need to work on Christmas and Boxing Day. And then you see your salary slip and see there's a grand missing. And then you try and print out something and the fucking printer has a flashing red light.

I could have literally picked the thing up and hurled it across the room.

Or opened the flap at the top and just repeatedly slammed it shut. Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam!

As you know, HP printers have those flimsey plasticy covers that make that pathetic slam noise which gets you to want to smash it even more.

Another good way to relieve this kind of raging anger is to bang your fist on the keyboard. Smack the bloody thing so hard until the letters pop out.

I'm failing to see the funny side in anything at the moment.

Oh yeah, and it was fucking cold this morning too.

Dear God / Buddha / Allah / Ying / Yong / Pong / Whatever...

Please make tomorrow be better.

Thank you,

Bobby

Gym pap

Folks, I have a bit of late breaking news to bring you!

You know how I told you about the porn star who works me out at the gym? Or my colleague who wanks in the shower. And hello, let's not forget about Rory (who's been AWOL for a few weeks, actually...)

Of course you're right, even London Preppy's been along to investigate the place.

Well, this is just as good as all that because it seems the paparazzi have been stalking my gym too!

The first thing I have to say is that my gym is not Fitness First so Rhydian's T-shirt is slightly amusing.

Second is that he's not the most famous person I've ever seen working out there but at least there's proof of it!

Incase you don't know (or don't care...) the blonde guy in these pictures is Rhydian, a contestant in the X-Factor. It's kind-of the UK equivalent to American Idol. Apparently he could win it, is this true?

Anyway, it's a talent show on TV, Simon Cowell's in both - you get the idea...

(Above) Here Rhydian has obviously been working out on the pec machine which is just to the right of the pic - hence him studying his chest. To the left are the windows which look out onto the swimming pool.

In this picture we see Rhydian using the incline chest machine. Yes, there are a lot of chest exercises involved. Maybe he should do some more arm exercises, me thinks...

As you can see, his arms although defined, aren't that great.

Finally, this picture above, is the most legendary one. Rhydian is hanging off the same cross bar that my hunky Hungarian hot-dog helped me up on the other day.

How funny! So now you've had a peak inside my gym too.

I think tomorrow I'm going to have to go armed to the gym with sunglasses and a large hat, God forbid someone should photograph me working out. I would hate it!

(PS. I'll be there from 7pm tomorrow, in a red vest and black shorts. Please only shoot me from the right, it's my best side. And stay out of the showers.
Until I say...)

Catalogue of filth

No-one has yet been in touch to say they've found a newspaper I've scribbled on but it hasn't stopped me.

Last Wednesday's Metro, I left in an east-bound Central Line carriage. This paper below I left on a London-bound First Great Western train from Cheltenham.

It's the sports section of the Guardian. Well, I'm hardly likely to read it am I? Sadly, it seems no hunky sports fan has picked up the paper and been in touch.

Maybe the cleaners on the train are too over-zealous and sweep them up before anyone else has the chance to see them.

Then, on Saturday I was on an anti-clockwise Circle Line train from Baker Street to Notting Hill Gate and found an MFI catalogue lying in the train window. MFI is a furniture shop.

Needless to say I didn't leave the defaced catalogue lying around for someone else (i.e. the police) to pick up. Maybe I should have though.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks these models look so smug, content and happy. Naturally it was wonderful to piss all over their homely little lifestyle...

...even if it is just a catalogue.

"Hmmm! In the morning I love heated spunk! Hmmm!"
By the way, the guy in this picture is my new boyfriend. He is quite hot, actually.

"God I could eat some minge".
My comment is rather unfortunate given that the woman in the picture looks a bit like Penelope Cruz.

"Your colleague is putting his willy in my bum and I love it.

Mwhahaha... I love it too! Er, the comment that is - not having a colleague's willy in my bum. I don't allow willys in my bum. (Mum, incase you're reading this...)

Sis, sis! I don't know who scribbled this tastless caption on this photo but whoever did it is sick, sick, sick.

Tee hee hee...

Anyway. This is all too much excitement for one day. I am going to scratch my bum and hang out the washing.

Bobby-board explained

So I made this little digital quilt out of pictures that mean something to me.

I thought it was a slightly more novel way to do one of those "things about me" posts. Of course I wanted to see if any of the pictures were familiar / meant something to you and some of them did. So how many of them match?

Here's my "key" to the image (starting from the top left and working from each row from left to right):

1/ The Waterfront and Table Mountain: Where I spend a lot of my youth. My second home.

2/ Highgate Cemetery: One of the most beautiful and tranquil places in London. It's great to go there and just "be". Thankfully I don't live there permanently.

3/ Stanley Kubrick: My inspiration. He's the reason I'm working in the business I am. When I work with a camera I think to myself "what would Stanley think of this shot?" The best compliment someone ever paid me was when they said "God, you're stuff is very "Kubrick".

4/ Pharcyde rave poster: When I was around 17 years old a group of us started to go to raves and be all grown-up. This is the poster from one of the first ones I went to.

5/ Gaydar boys: I thought these would add something nice to look at. I don't know who they are but they're hot. And also because a few months ago I stopped using Gaydar. It's a waste of time.

6/ Bond Street tube station: I use this Tube station nearly everyday. I reckon statistically I have used this station everyday for the last five years. That's a lot of times.

7/ Apple: This blog is made on a Mac. I spend far too much in that bloody Apple shop. I am computer illiterate and am a creature of habit so a Mac is about my limit because it really is like Fisher Price for adults.

8/ Some famous old moth-eaten building in West London: Where I work.

9/ Cannonball Ball II film: It's the biggest pile of shit ever produced on film but somehow I know all the words to it.

10/ Batman: The first film I went to see all my own and the first tape I ever bought.

11/ Sony Z1: All I want for Christmas. This piece of technology physically turns me on. I want one so badly. (Nudge, nudge).

12/ Union flag: I'm British.

13/ Pride flag: And a gay too.

14/ Lady at the Virginal by Johannes Vermeer: He's one of my favourite artists. I love the uniformity and his repeated use of chequered floors. One day I must tell you about my chequered-floor obsession.

15/ Pringle clothing: My favourite label. It's like they make it especially for me because it fits so well. Perhaps in a past life I was a Scot.

16/ aussieBum: Because I'm currently wearing aussieBum knickers.

17/ Lamborghini Diablo: The most expensive car I ever driven. In Cape Town I got to drive one around the city, it was silver and was the most frightening / exhilarating things I've ever done.

18/ Sky: Where I once worked. I hated it.

19/ A block of cheese: The canteen in the place where I work puts up the price on everything so when I go there I always steal a Babybel cheese to make up for the difference they're ripping me off by.

20/ Edinburgh: The only place I went to on holiday to this year. It's dem Scots again...

21/ Istu: I worship at the altar of Itsu. The best fast-food place in London. I started going to the one on Piccadilly before the food there turned nuclear. Geddit?

22/ Hiedsieck Blue Top champagne: This is going to sound so pretentious but it's what they serve in Club World on British Airways. Drinking it in those circumstances means it's holiday-time. Woo hoo!

23/ Rhodesian flag: I was born in Rhodesia though it isn't around anymore. I think it's quite cool to say I was born in a place that doesn't exist.

24/ Soho gyms: The first gym I used to go to when I arrived in London, me and the rent boys. I was very out-of-place so now go somewhere far more genteel.

25/ The Art Of War by Sun Tzu: My dad gave me this when I turned 18. Everyday I live by the principles in the book. It sounds slightly psychotic to live your life according to a manual about making war but I've found it an amazing guide. I like to think it means that I'm unbeatable.

26 University of Cape Town: Where I spent four years drinking too much, partying too much and not doing much studying. I thought the picture, with Table Mountain in the background, looked pretty.

27/ Fransz Liszt: His Piano Concerto No. 2 is music from a higher source. It is complex, intense and beautiful.

28/ Thunder-thunder-thundercats! Hooooo!: They so beat the shit out of He-Man. Lion-O was hot too. Early homo-gay wet dreams in a cartoon. I love them.

Bobby-board

Do you know that application on Facebook that you add, which makes all your friends appear in a grid?

Visually I think it's quite cool so I thought I'd make something similar...

Instead of doing one of those boring "50 things about me" I thought it would be nice to find a whole load of pictures to illustrate a little of me.

So here is Bobby in 28 pictures:
(It goes bigger if you click on it...)

Maybe you recognise some of the images? Maybe they mean something to you too?

Some of the pictures are obvious, some more obscure so I'll have to explain at some point. Any of them look familiar?

(By the way, I have just seen someone with a beer on the TV and it looked so fucken tasty. I am gagging for an ale now.)

Note to whoever

I always enjoy running a little "blog project", whether it's you sending me pictures of your eyes or your legs.

This one though is a little more ambitious.

Every day in London distributors hand out tens of thousands of free newspapers to commuters. Sometimes you can get into a Tube carriage that is completely littered with free papers.

I always wonder who picks them up and reads them - and where does one of the papers begin its journey and where does it end?

So, while sitting on the Central Line this morning I came up with an experiment.

I am going to write a little note on a page in one of these free sheets, leave it on the train and hope that someone else picks it up and responds to it.

It's the modern-day equivalent of putting notes in bottles and dropping them into the ocean. This morning I left two newspapers on two different London Underground lines.

The first was a copy of The Times that I bought to read.

This (above) is the copy I left on a Westbound Central Line train to Ealing Broadway.

This is the little message I wrote in it:

The second newspaper I wrote a note on, I left on a Northbound Jubilee line train to Wembley Park.

I really hope that someone finds these and gets in touch. Wouldn't it be the funniest thing?

Please, if you've come to this blog because you've picked up one of the newspapers I've left on a train, please drop me an e-mail or leave a comment.

Secondly, if one of you in London finds one of these newspapers, that would be the biggest fluke! Maybe a prize could be offered like a meal out or free sex?

Who knows who's out there? And who may get in touch. It's like putting little bits of niceness into the Universe and hoping that someone responds.

I wonder just who is out there...

My real-life gay wet dream

So just what did I get up to with my new Hungarian mega-muscle pornstar buddy*?

Okay, while skipping home that post nearly wrote itself and I really did savour writing every word of it.

However, I fear this may be a serious case of the headline being better than the story. But I don't think it is...

Here's what happened:
At the gym I am using the cable crossover machine - you know the one where you can do pull-ups and use the cables on either side.

I am trying to do back but I'm feeling tired, flat and bored.

In walks Felicity (as I now call him). He is dressed in a blue T-shirt and white gym-style trousers.

I cannot tell you how incredibly big he is - so here's a picture...

He's working out next to me but then wants to share the cabley crossover machine. In a thick Eastern European accent, his voice a mixture of gravel and thunder, he says; "we share machine?"

I nearly fucken faint.

This guy is 6'4. In all the films he's appeared in (more than 30) he stars as a "power bottom". He is like a gay porn monolith. A towering mountain of sex, tan and muscle.

I say to him "yeah, go ahead, use the machine - I'm really bored..."

He asks what I'm doing, I tell him and he offers to help.

For some reason I didn't spring a boner but I have to say that it was one of the most erotic experiences I have ever had in my entire life. The word erotic was coined to describe what it felt like

He helped me with pull-ups by putting his hands on my waist and lifting me up slightly. Me being totally turned-on and completely gung-ho decided to try twice as hard.

He was friendly, he smiled and I think what made it even more hot for me was that I don't think he had a clue that I knew who he was.

When I was stood waiting for him to finish, watching him I just kept thinking "I want to rip your clothes off so badly". My left leg was shaking at times (do you ever get that?). I had this ridiculous grin plastered on my face throughout.

It ended with his friend appearing and they then left - he offered to help me again if I wanted.

Just fantasising about the scenarios that could have happened, makes me seriously hot.

Make no mistake, this guy makes a living out of selling his body. Usually I don't find lads like him that attractive but when they're standing over you in the flesh, smiling with their massive bulging arms ready to help you, it's just like a real-life gay wet dream.

The best thing now is that my back and lats seriously hurt. And I've been saying to anyone that'll listen that the reason I'm in so much pain is thanks to a Goliath-like Hungarian gay porn star.

God, he worked me out tough and I loved every minute of it.

The grin on my face will seriously not go. It was so sexy, so much fun and I didn't even get naked.

This has seriously been one of the highlights of my year. Yes, I am a little pathetic, I know...

* = the reason I haven't named him is because I think it's a little rich for me to stay anonymous, only for me to then plaster his name all over the place.

I will say though that, having done a Google search, I see his latest feature is called "Olympus". You'll have no problem spotting who I'm talking about.

Edit: I am kinda sorry that this post is so boring after the way I built it up but it's the most exciting thing that's happened to be in a long time. My life is so dull. I never said I was interesting, did I?

Once. With Feeling...

I'm only going to get the opportunity to say this once so I'm going to enjoy uttering every single one of these words (this is an indication of how low my life has sunk...)

I am in absolutely agony - though it is a fabulous pain. Yes, I've been royally fucked by a mighty muscular Hungarian porn superstar.

God, he worked me good and proper.

To be continued (once the pain has subsided).

King of the Castle

I really need to a take a break from the ritual emotional thrashing I subject myself to on a daily basis.

Thanks for all the comments and the e-mails you've sent. It means a lot, yeah.

There's a lot more to write about and it's proving quite difficult at times - hopefully by the end you'll understand why and I'll be rid of a lot of toxic memories that I need to purge.

Anyway, something completely different...

On Saturday night I have to travel all the way to Greenwich for a friend's housewarming party.

Incase you don't know London, from where I live (Zone 2, north) to Greenwich (Zone 3, south) is like travelling to fucken Timbuktu.

It took me two hours to get there but in the end it was kinda worth it. Even if just for a homemade mince pie and some mulled wine, of which I only had a small glass.

There was an interesting cross-section of the gays, from hairy-beary types to Nazi-body-conscious-bitch types who leered at the mince pies as though they were massive great piles of excrement.

I ended up flirting with some Scottish bloke who said he was going to meet mates in Vauxhall and I was welcome to join. NW3 to Greenwich to Vauxhall?! You must be fucken joking.

Instead I left when the first joint came out and started the trek home.

At Waterloo I stopped off to get a bottle of water in an off-licence / bottle store opposite the Old Vic.

And what do I spot in the beer fridge?!

To a Seth Efriken or anyone who's ever lived in Seth Efrika this label basically means "home".

It stirs such emotions in people it could well replace the Seth Efriken flag as an object of national pride.

Because I only had a glass of mulled wine at the party I thought fuck it. I reached into the fridge and pulled out six (yes, bitches - six!) Castles.

On the Tube travelling home I sat and necked five of them. One after the other, saving one for the walk from the tube station to my front door.

I've kept one of the bottles as a souvenir thus proving that I am not really Seth Efriken.

If I was a real Seth Efriken I would line them all up on top of the kitchen cupboard, proudly displaying my ability to consume vast amounts of booze.

I hadn't had a beer for ages and my god, it tasted fucken beautiful. The Castle was ice cold and bitter.

Having downed all that alcohol of course on Sunday morning I was at the gym first thing, doing cardio and abs.

On the way to the gym there's a poster in a chemist window that inspires me everytime I walk past it. I thought it may do the same for you?

All I want in life is a stomach like that (his stomach I mean...)

Speaking of things I desperately want - if anyone can arrange for me to have him this Christmas, I will love you eternally:

Get that arm. And that chest. And that stomach. Please will someone bring him to me now.

That's all.

Oh yeah, by the way, there's still a fucken toilet on the pavement outside my house. What the fuck!?

Slopping off drunk for sex

I'm somewhat defiant because I look at the things I got up to and I don't give a shit.

I don't know what I feel but whatever it is, it isn't regret. Never ever regret.

I say to myself that I've been blessed to have the opportunities and experiences some people may never have.

Instead of some boring, mundane and sterile life where the furthest you've pushed yourself is to wear a slightly edgy hat, I like to tell myself that at least I've done a lot more. And I'm not yet 30.

Of course I only say this to myself as a means to try and justify past behaviour. A cavalier attitude can help to hide a lot you know.

I put my validations to one side and I tell you this because maybe it's time I faced the story. I have faced fragments of it but never all of it at once.

All I can say is that I will never apologise for anything I've done because there's no-one to apologise to. In the end I have to face my own conscience.

You can judge me however you please. All you should know is that it is in the past and I am about to move on from it both now and I did so a long time ago.

Right...

So every Friday night it was customary for me and a group of mates to meet for a drink at our favourite bar at a pretty swish drinking establishment in Cape Town.

We knew the barman, we ran a monthly tab and we would usually be there for most of Friday night.

Of course, this being a regular event it soon became habit. And when things become a habit, to keep them interesting, you have to spice them up a little.

Soon Friday night drinks became Friday night drinks with a line or four.

That then morphed into Friday night with booze and substances and a turn at the local sauna. That's how this story ties in.

One Friday night I found myself particularly flush. I had done a lot of work, been paid and was seriously liquid, on many levels.

There's no need to explain or justify the rest.

In my drunken, drugged-up, fucked-up state I stumbled to a whore house up the road, hired two rent boys and dragged them off to an expensive hotel room I'd booked at the Waterfront in Cape Town.

I was 23 fucking years old at the time.

The one rent was about 30, blonde and very muscular, the other I remember had brown hair.

I remember standing in the lift with them at the hotel and saying "I'd love to watch you fuck him". Both of them were paid to stay the night.

In the bathroom, while they were undressing I remember doing substance. I remember watching and not being able to get it up because I was so fucked.

They rubbed each other up on the bed and I remember thinking that it was odd that neither of them were hard.

Of course they were not interested in each other. I would say that neither of them seemed vaguely interested in men anyway.

I lay naked on the bed as they romped around uncomfortably at the end of it. I tried to join in on a few occasions but I couldn't really speak. I was sniffing and gurning and slurring.

Suddenly, at about 6am I woke up, alone and naked in this expensive hotel room.

My clothes were strewn everywhere and thankfully all my valuables were on the bedside table.

All that money I had worked so to hard to earn, I'd blown on booze, drugs and the prospect of sex. I was too fucked too enjoy any of it.

After checking out of the hotel I remember walking back to my flat. I thought of the two guys counting the money I'd given them and I felt like wanting to cry.

I felt patronised, cheap, slutty, pathetic, remorseful, unhappy. Who could I tell about what I'd done?

In no time I was stood in the Greenpoint McDonalds, ready to smother any emotion with food. Big Macs were my friend then. They comforted me when I was alone and upset. I had no-one to hug.

It was a pretty low point but the worst was still to come.

Yeah, right now I'm not feeling so cavalier about this afterall.

Column inches

As you may know, I'm throwing out a load of emotional trash in my life and it's proving quite difficult.

Well, difficult in the sense that, for the last two nights in a row I've had some really bad dreams as a result. Odd.

I mentioned to you that the reason I managed to got into these sometimes outrageous (pathetic) situations was because of my job. I was on the telly, sometimes on radio and as a result in newspapers and magazines.

I don't think I was famous at all or at least it never felt that way. Or it never seemed like it until I was asked for my autograph.

It's weird when it happens. It was the opening of a shopping centre (where the fuck else?) and I was standing chatting to someone when this middle-aged woman came up with a book and a pen.

Whatever.

Last night I pulled out an old scrapbook I haven't looked at since I moved house, which was November 2005.

Misty water-coloured memories etc. Here's a selection:

Being totally Z-list meant I had to attend a bunch of wankey parties. This is in the social pages of a magazine when I was one of the "celebrity" judges at some beauty competition.

I'm the blue blobs.

Every year a famous South African winery has an auction and this is another shleb-pages pic. Me? On a fucking wine farm at a wine auction? I probably made an complete arse of myself.

Some famous British chef came out to do some bollocksy promotion and I was the er, dunno really. I was in the ads for it!? I told you, this really is like attack of the Z-listers!

I always thought this was a fucken insult actually, i.e. they chose me because I looked like someone who enjoyed their food. Nowadays I don't eat.

Yeah, check this one out... on the front of a newspaper. They'd done some interview with me and it was obviously a slow news day because they stuck my picture on the front page.

And finally one of my proudest moments, relatively speaking...

I got to interview a famous clothes-horse (model). The little photo is with with the model holding the magazine. She signed it for me. I know she probably wanted to sleep with me too. Obviously.

Listen, sorry about the blue smudges and the white smudges. I wanted kind-of share them with you so that you can get a sense of things.

Maybe I should just put all the clippings up uncensored, then I could ask people who I knew at the time "was I drunk / fucked / did I behave amorally at this function?"

At least it would save me a fuckload of typing.