Wednesday 29 August 2007

Legs akimbo!

Right...

On Tuesday I make a silly remark that goes something like "oi, send us a picture of your legs."

To be honest I was expecting you to read it and go "what a load of old bollocks" but suddenly; "ping!"

One picture arrives and then another and another. I have the brave and shameless (and hot) snapping their legs and mailing the pictures to me.

Here is the first pair of legs that I think are very hot. There's bulk and definition and they're smooth.

What I also like is that the quads come to an end and join up with some high-definition "leg". Nice stuff.

These are next on the entry list.

Now not only does this person have really fit legs but they are natural too. There is no clipped hair. Nor is there is no non-hairiness. Basically, these legs are sexy.

These legs (above) are cool because there's more suggested than what is actually seen. Basically these legs suggest that around the back there is a very cute ass lurking. I like that. I also like the vein in the left-hand corner of abs.

Then, I am sent these...

These don't really scream bulk but there is sturdiness. These legs also suggest an enormous willy which kinda cancels out a lack of a quads. (The suggestion of willy-XL is thanks to the over-size Calvins. I cannot confirm these allegations).

Then we have a late re-entry.

These very defined calves are sent in. They show some ample hairyness (nice) but most importantly they show bulk.

Finally these legs belong to yours truly. While I am happy to admit that in the quads stage, I may be lacking however, in the calves stage I surge ahead.

Maybe I need to snap some better pics?

So whose do you like? Whose is the sexiest? Leave a comment and let me know. (Listen, I know this all a load of bollocks - a body counts for nothing when the brain is as flat as a pancake...innit?)

Out to lunch

I work in a large mouse-infested historic building in London which you've probably seen on TV. In it there are two restaurants and a few weeks I notice a new face behind the check-outs in one of them.

To cut a long story short... he is in his early 20s, from Eastern Europe and I have to say, rather cute. Over the next few days he smiles at me and last Friday, when he gives me my change our hands meet, he looks up at me and his eyes completely light up.

Yesterday, while trying to find something edible he appears behind me. Noticing him I turn around and he very quickly and nervously hands me a piece of paper. He is obviously trying to make sure his colleagues don't notice what he's doing.

I shove the paper in my pocket, grab and pay for a Diet Coke and leave.

Around the corner I open it.

"Its Rico from teabar. Maybe I take you for lunch sometime if you want. 077xx xxxx xxxx"

My heart completely skips a beat. This is one of the sweatest things that's happened to me for a while. All of last night I was torn up about what I should do.

Actually, it's not a difficult choice because I know there's only one option.

He's young, wide-eyed, obviously new to London and new to the whole "gay in a big city" thing. I am a 29 year old guy who's seen and done a lot, is mostly cynical - basically I know that whatever happens it can't / won't work.

This morning I take a deep breath and walk to the canteen to find him. I get there and the radio is on. Peter Cetera's playing.

He is packing ready-made sandwiches but looks up and sees me. His faces flashes a smile. I walk over to him.

I think "Oh god, I wish that fucking radio would shut up".

"Hey Rico... thank you so much. That note was really really sweet." He smiles and looks into my eyes.

"But unfortunately I am taken. I'm so sorry."

He smiles and says "okay, fine" but this look of terrible disappoinment just washes across his face. He tries to smile again but takes a step back and half raises his hand as if to wave but instead turns on his heals and walks away with his head hung.

The ready-made sandwich trolley is abandoned as he walks in the opposite direction, out of the canteen.

I want to run after him, grab him and give him such a big hug and say something or apologise again but what can you do?

I feel awful because I have just ruined his day. He probably got home last night and and thought about taking me out for supper or something.

Tonight he is probably walking through his front door and feeling like shit. Maybe I made him cry in the toilet.

I really feel bad.

Maybe I am battered and cynical because that's been done to me and I've just done it to someone else. I feel awful.

He'll never read this but I want to put it out into the Universe anyway.

Rico,
For a moment you stole my heart. I was flattered and so touched that you did something so brave and plucked up the courage to hand me that note. It will stay in my special shoebox forever. In time you'll forget about this but right now I'm so sorry if I hurt you. You deserve a Prince on horseback to come and whisk you away - I'm sure you'll have no trouble in finding him but unfortunately that Prince is not me.
With love and light,
Bobby.


I guess I'm now also going to have to find somewhere else to buy my lunch.

Tuesday 28 August 2007

Legging it

Last night I was so exhausted I didn't even make it into bed. My duvet cover needed changing and I knew I had to get one from the drawer.

So I thought "if I just lie down here for a minute, I'll get it in a moment." Luckily my housemate was able to wake me up. And take a photo of course.

This picture is embarrassing for one reason only. No, not that I have passed out on the floor (who hasn't?) but that you can see that I have Ikea drawers as bedside tables.

A few weeks ago we were on a shoot on location at a huge country house. I was so exhausted I squirreled off and fell asleep in a bath. I thought that the loo would be the last place anyone would think to look for me. I was mistaken.

Yes, I've fallen asleep on the Tube too. And yes I was drunk at the time.

I ended up in Stanmore in fucking Zone 13 or something (read: outer space) at the end of the Jubilee Line. Luckily it wasn't late and I could get the train back.

The worst experience was getting on what I thought was the last train home (I was living in Ealing at the time and needed to get to Ealing Broadway) but instead the train terminated at North Acton (read: the dregs of London, no apologies if you live there).

I had to walk from fucken North-goddam-Acton to Ealing Broadway at about 1am on a week-night and I got so lost I ended up stumbling around that disgusting bloody Hangar Line gyratory system. The part where all the homeless men shout and rave at passers-by.

To non-Londoners this roughly translates as: "While drunk, at 1am on a weekday morning I needed to get from Paris to London but ended up stumbling around the slums of Barcelona."

When I first got to London I lived in a house with six other loud South Africans. So there was a lot of drunken stumbling around and singing on the Tube. Maybe some of those memories are worth digging up for a laugh. Er, maybe not.

Anyway... after I mentioned chicken legs the other day somebody threw down a challenge.

It went something like; "you're so dismissive of chicken legs - let's see yours then..."

Fine. Check out those babies above. Those calves are anything but chicken, bitches. Now it's your turn to show us your legs. And that means all of you.

Bekerk! Bekerk! Come on, prove that you're not chooky.

Monday 27 August 2007

Big Wonk-end Pt 2

So while I'm on the couch enjoying my post-club beer on the sofa I remember (a few) of the things that happened:

I see two guys from the gym which sounds potentially exciting but in reality it isn't. When I see them at the gym I never actually notice them doing anything which is pretty evident when they have their shirts off.

Words like 'fat', 'not' and 'muscle' spring to mind.

One of them looks completely off their face but his boyfriend (?) recognises me and we exchanged "hullo -I-know-you-from-the-gym" smiles.

At one point I need to wee so end up queuing for the urinal. This really pisses me off.

Area is a gay disco, fine. Yes, it's sweaty and the atmosphere can be pretty sexually-charged but there's no fucken excuse for guys to stand at the urinal and jerk off. It's lame.

And why is it always the same guy who's having a wank at the urinal? You know the one - he's always slightly older than everyone else, wears checked shirts and has glasses.

I don't know why he just doesn't cut his losses and head for the sauna next door?

I estimate I spent 95% of the time on the dancefloor which means being variously groped, kissed and leaving with about 80 varieties of other men's sweat on you.

There was a moment of some horror when my back pressed against what felt like someone else's back who I thought was wearing a T-shirt.

I turned around to realise that it wasn't a wet T-shirt but was instead a very sweaty and very hairy back. I didn't like that.

So that was Matinee. And if you want my honest opinion, it all felt a bit "done". They either need to give it a rest or maybe it's just time to find a new playground.

Moving on.

Sunday night is our annual summer house party which means I spend most of the day moving furniture, in other words, trying to tire myself out so that I can sleep.

I finally manage about an hour of shut-eye before it's time to start again.

There's a vat of cold beer and wine, about 20 takeaway pizzas on order and my housemate's friend, who's a DJ is setting up his decks.

Things go notoriously downhill when friends start arriving.

Why do people always gather in the fucken kitchen?

And then there's this - the drinks counter before...

Gimme a fucken drink, bitch!And afterwards.

Goddam alco-friends. The mixers have hardly been touched but the Pimms and Vodka bottles have been hammered.

All in it was a great party - we only turned the music off at about 4-ish. Sitting out on the terrace there is me and four other die-hards (one woman, three gays - naturally) drinking as the sun is rising.

This is the second morning in a row that I have been sat with alcohol in one hand and a cigarette in the other, watching the sun come up.

The ratio is now 30 hours awake: 1 hour asleep.

Finally at about 7am I get into bed. If there's a box next to the line "I went mad on Bank Holiday weekend" I think I'm pretty confident I can tick it.

Edit: Not wanting to look a gift-horse in the mouth, somebody put beer in the deep-freeze and forgot about it. I've just fished them out and while typing this have fucken relished sipping one (okay two).

Get me another beer, bitch!Come on, admit it. They do look fucken tempting. Besides, it is Bank Holiday Weekend for god's sake.

Right, now I'm broken. The end. Go away now. I want to sleep.

Sunday 26 August 2007

Big Wonk-end Pt 1

In Britain we have public holidays on a Monday and they're called Bank Holidays. Even though there are banks that are open.

Bank holiday weekends are an opportunity for the Great British Public to basically go mad. Especially when the weather is good. I, being British, (because it says so in my passport) decide that on this Bank Holiday, I am going to go mad too. So...

Friday
Leave work. Dinner, drinks. Home. Few more glasses of wine. It's a Bank Holiday Weekend remember which also means no gym.

Saturday
Weather good, wake up and tidy up. Lunch with Helen (friend). Bank holiday mood kicks in again so decide to have pasta. And a beer. And another.

Get home, a little wobbly.

Text to me: "What time to you wanna meet later?"
Me text back: "...Am not feeling too hot (read: I'm feeling fat) ... dunno if I wanna anymore"

It's at these times that I remember the words of Samuel Goldwyn when he said "I don't want to be part of a group that would have me as a member."

Text to me: "Don't start your crap - you know you'll have a good time when you get there"
Me text back: "Yeah, yeah..."

21:00.
Mood: Wanna lie in front of TV and fall asleep.

Shortly afterwards...
Text to me: "What have you decided"
Me text back: "I don't feel like it."
Text to me: "You're a loser, see you outside at 01.00"

01.00 outside club.
Me: "Yey, I'm glad I had a sleep - I'm up for this now."
James (friend): "You're such a fucking loser, you do the same thing every time."

01.05.
Matinee!



06.00-ish
Jon, James and his boyfriend: "We're going to this new thing where Beyond used to be."
Me: You must be absolutely fucking joking.

06.01
Bobby gets cab home.

06.10
Get home and search for sleeping pills / valium / a brick to knock myself out with. Nothing. Fuck. Faced with the only option available I did what any meaningful person would do. I opened a nice, cold beer.

It's Bank Holiday Weekend for god's sake.

To be continued... with various morsels of "what happened in club", "the house party that did" and "how to survive for 24 hours on an hour's sleep".

Thursday 23 August 2007

Cluck you

Pop quiz, bitches.

Have a look at the picture below that I managed to very discreetly snap in the gym changeroom. The very scrawmy legs in the picture belong to a guy who just pisses me off.

I have not ever chatted to him, in fact I don't know him from a bar of soap but do you know how you can just cultivate an irrational loathing for someone based on a very flimsy premise?

Here's the premise... of the two pictures below - both hand drawn by me - which one do you think accurately reflects the top half?

Exhibit 1:


Exhibit 2:
Now before you go leaping to any conclusions think about what I've mentioned.

He has chicken legs. His legs are scrawny and tiny. Perhaps he too is scrawny and tiny, yes?

No fucken way. Of course the upper half is pretty close to the drawing in Exhibit 2.

I just want to shake him and go "dude, you look like a fucken idiot!" Maybe it would be a good idea to cluck very quietly.

If he just did one day of legs a week it wouldn't look so bad. He always wears board shorts because his thighs must be like broomsticks. But that's not all!

Exhibit 2 is actually a bit of a rose-tinted drawing because he very definitely does not have a sixpack. He has enormous shoulders, large pecs and huge arms. And that's it.

And still that's not all!

He's also the worst person to work out near because he picks up the heaviest weights, lifts them once or twice then let's out a huge groan and drops the fucking things on the floor.

"If they're too heavy and you have to keep on dropping them, use fucking lighter weights, cunt!" Is what I'd like to say.

And do you know the most remarkable thing about this guy?

If you visit any gym on any day, in any country in absolutely any part of the world, he will be there. Getting in your way, panting, groaning, doing the same exercises day-in, day-out and then just loving himself in the mirror.

Just don't mention chicken legs.

Wednesday 22 August 2007

Second chapter

At this rate my thriller is never going to get written...



The above is a joke and is not to be taken seriously. There are absolutely no Hollywood A-listers in my cupboard. Or in any closet for that matter. Allegedly.

Tuesday 21 August 2007

Write on...

So Edinburgh has completely inspired me and I decide that I want to write plays and films and books and shit.

In order to write I can't work so I've taken today (Tuesday) and tomorrow off, to live for two days as a novelist or author would.

Of course things haven't gone quite to plan.

I've decided my first book is going to be a thriller.

In the States in the 80s a dossier used to be passed between county police services which gave details of so-called "crimes of the occult" so that other forces could be on alert if, say, Aunt Ethel's black cat was found skinned alive.

My idea is that people who've read the contents of the file keep turning up dead. I've kinda worked out why and it's got nothing to do with evil spirits or rubbish like that.

Anyway, that's the premise but everytime I write down a sequence or try to imagine a nerve-shredding situation I end up scaring myself because I'm all alone.

To take my mind off the fact that I have just frightened myself I have to go and do something else.

Thus far today I've:
Washed some vases in the dishwasher
Re-arranged the lounge
Watched Disc 2 of the second series of Kath & Kim
Tried to re-arrange the CDs in alphabetical order but got bored after Duran Duran
Wandered to the Sainsbury's three times

On the third visit look what turns up to bloody haunt me, hogging the entire bloody diary aisle. I wonder what they'd do if I decided to drive my car in to collect half a pint of milk and some bread. So why is she allowed to do it?

Ah! A bloody scooter...So I'm finding this author lifestyle very difficult. When trying to hone my craft I keep ending up making myself petrified and then can't work so get bored and do other things.

I wander if all crap writers have immaculately clean houses?

Maybe I should start with a children's novel. Or try to write down a few words to describe just what I'd like to do to him:

Argh! And so it continues because now I think it's time for a 10-minute break for porn.

Spunk you later...

Kulcha shokka

I got to Edinburgh on Saturday at around lunchtime and met up with The Group.

The Group means me, Nick and Colin (Nick and I have been friends for the last 17 years, his partner is Colin, they're practically married). Nick's sister Tanya, her boyfriend TJ and Linda, our friend from Sweden plus Julie who I've known for nearly 15 years and her brother Tom.

We went to shows, drank (some) beer and laughed a lot. It's always the best with friends.

Friends are people who don't care how many times you go to gym and they don't judge you by the label in your underwear.

At some point I even thought "fuck the fucking gym" and gleefully tucked into one of these:

It's a buttered roll with a two hot dog sausages AND fried grated cheese on the top with tomato sauce.

And I demanded that we go for a drink here:

So while we're vaguely on-topic, here's Bobby's "Edinburgh By Numbers..."

Number of flyers I was handed: Hundreds
Number of airmiles earned: 250
Number of people seen running around in public in a silly costume: 100+
Number of shows seen: 10
Number of famous people spotted: 3*
Number of pints of San Miguel: 2
Number of guys I flirted with: 2
Number of those that resulted in an exchange of phone numbers: 1
Number of pieces of paper I lost with cute guy's phone number on: 1

* - Colin swears he spotted JK Rowling, I saw Stephen Merchant and the guy who plays Justin, Edina's first husband in Absolutely Fabulous.

The best show? It's a toss-off (surely "toss-up") between the Bad Film Club and Fuerzabruta.

The Bad Film Club made me laugh until I was hitting myself, Fuerzabruta was just one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. I can't explain it. There was absolutely no point or narrative to it but it was just astonishing.

Towards the end I managed to get a photo because up until that point I'd just been stood with my mouth hanging open.

Above is the final element to the show, where the guy in the white suit who started the performance by running, is joined by two other people who just run.

After the show, while having a drink and drying off because we got soaking wet, it was bizarre to eavesdrop on the people around us.

It's the first time I've been stood somewhere after a show and listening to people talk about it as though they've just experienced some religious epiphany.

Check the official website, if you live in town where Fuerzabruta's visiting, make a point of going to see it.

I had the most amazing time, mostly because I got my fill and left feeling totally inspired.

At the airport I bought a little Moleskine book and started making notes, reminded of the adage: "if you just write down your thoughts, inspired or otherwise, within a year you'll have the outline to a book".

Paging through it, so far I've got: "must leave key for maid, "need loo roll" and "NatWest" (which I think means I need to phone the bank).

And just before we go, I snapped this pretty picture of Edinburgh Castle.

Edinburgh Castle

Monday 20 August 2007

Brutish Airways

I said I'd take the laptop er, virus-device along with me to Edinburgh to share in the delights of all the Scottish capital has to offer. Yes, I've failed.

But I have opened it now. Because the fucking flight is delayed - by 50 goddam minutes.

I've been sat in the BA Execution Lounge knocking back free booze. I have some photos and a few stories, I wanna show them to you but can't bothered to negotiate cables etc.

Right now though I have some snivelling woman on my left drawing hearts on what seems to be her boyfriend's wall on Facebook and on my right (and indeed to everyone's right...) there is a Muslim man saying his evening prayers.

Perhaps I'll offer him a swig from my San Miguel, that oughta do good for cultural relations and such.

So while I'm being delayed I've been trying to come up with alternative words for British Airways.

So far I've got:

British Crapways
British No-ways
Brutish Airways
We're So Fucking Shit We Can't Believe You Still Fly With Us

Further suggestions on the back of toilet door please. Or you can leave a comment which would be nice.

And in this age of trans-continental travel means that I'll say this in Edinburgh and read what you have to say back, in London. Get her!

EDIT: London, 22.43

Haha! I love the fact that while I'm taking them for the free booze, I can join with you in a little BA-bashing ritual.

That, above, is the big metal bird that kept us fucking waiting.

Onboard the plane I sank another two glasses of Chardonnay and nearly had Mark the chief purser.

There was the awful moment that went; "I just wanted a moist towel / why are you sitting in my lap?"

But in the end we got to Heathrow.

Right now I'm on the wrong side of free airline booze, a stuffy Bakerloo line and in desperate need of shower.

I've unilaterially decided that I'm not going to work tomorrow so can we continue with this then? I think I need to go, lie down and count sheep. Or empties.

Friday 17 August 2007

Och aye...

The video below should help explain why, over the next few days, I may seem a little distant.



Keep it bad, bitches. Just as I plan to do too.

Thursday 16 August 2007

Bodies on ice

I had to dash into Sainsbury's which is situated in a shopping centre or as I call them Nightmares With Airconditioning.

So I'm about to get onto the escalator when a woman stops me. "Excuse me, would you mine taking the lift down with me, I'm afraid of confined spaces?"

Er... "You're what?"

"Scared of being alone in confined spaces - would you mind coming with me, the lift is just around the corner, it's only one floor, please..."

"Why don't you take the escalator?"

"Those are even more frightening".

Well, what would you have done in this situation? I just ran away.

I figure she's either:
1/ An actress doing some Candid Camera-style comedy show
2/ A maniac who's going to get you into the lift alone and do God-knows-what to you
3/ Genuinely afraid of lifts AND escalators.

Fuck knows because I legged it. Weirdo.

The fun continues in the Sainsbury's where I catch sight of Brent. He's the guy I told you about yesterday. I've decided to call him Brent because firstly he's "rent" and secondly his rent name starts with a B.

That's a whopping ten out of ten for originality there then!

Naturally I have to follow him around a bit - intrigued as to what he might put in his trolley.

I try to keep my distance but also take a photo however I fail because I'm also trying to negotiate a basket and a heavy gym bag at the same time.

He has some bananas and fat-free yoghurt already.

I then have that moment, the one where you say to yourself; "Bobby, what are you really expecting him to buy? New grabbling hooks for his sling? Replacement electrodes?"

He's a normal person doing something normal, like shopping. Finally I leave him in the loo-roll section.

(Pink, single-ply. The man clearly has no taste either.)

I was going to have the big moral debate with myself - "is it really appropriate to be stalking rent boys in the Sainsbury's" but instead I got home and sucked my teeth.

But not before taking the body out of the freezer to defrost. Just kidding.

In fact having a body in the fridge would at least give the poor contraption a reason for existing. The thing works all day and all night to keep the following things cold:

Empty fridge Moving on...

It was thirty years ago today that Elvis died. I bet his fridge didn't look at all like mine.

Like so many I am fascinated with Elvis. One day, when I buy my own house, I am going to have an entire wall dedicated to pictures of him.

I'm fascinated with him, not because of his music but because I think he was one of the most beautiful men who's ever lived. Like Marlon Brando.

It's such a tragedy to see how he turned out (like Brando too) but just look at some of my favourite pictures of him. He was the best but he was also just so incredibly beautiful.

Above is one of my favourite photos of him, aged about 22. It's mesmerising and weird to look at it and picture what would become of him. It's odd to think that that spotty youth, with the thick lips and smokey eyes, would go on to become a true legend. I wonder if he ever had an inkling of the way things would turn out?


I like these two because above, he just looks so cocky and below, just so cute.

Finally this picture which needs no explanation. Absolutely beautiful.

Rock on Elvis...

Wednesday 15 August 2007

Rent-boys, clubs and Kylie?

So before we go any further you need to check out this picture...


Look at the picture above. It's a flyer for a Heaven Club party in Ibiza. One of the guys looks familiar, mainly because I spotted him in the gym last night.

(It actually happened the other way around. I spotted him working out and thought; "fuck, why does he look familiar?" I got home and thumbed through a few old QX's and there he was, though not the place I expected. I had thought he'd be in the rent-boy back section, but instead saw him in the ad above.)

Which one is he? Here's a clue: he's not the one on the left, nor is he the two on the right.

I wouldn't have noticed him at the gym had he not been relentlessly picking up and fiddling with his mobile phone.

I don't much but I know this: muscular boys in the gym who're obssessed with their cell-phones are not waiting for calls from their friends.

Nor are they waiting for a "hullo" from their mum. Between you and me, 'client' is the word.

So I get home and I'm determined to try and track down why he seemed familiar. Mainly because he's hot and I'm trying to plot my way into his underpants.

I figure I might as well just try the "Commercial" section of Gaydar. I mean you can always rely on Gaydar, in one way or another.

And there he is...bingo. And with a link to his own website too.

If you click on the picture (he supplies banners on his page!), it will take you to it:

Now that I see he's done porn I'm not so keen though mainly I'm also not so keen that he's mine for £140 an hour.

So again I find myself asking the question; "why-oh-why do all the really fit guys turn out to be rent boys?"

Do straight guys face the same predicament? Do they see really hot girls in the gym, go home and then find out that they're actually hookers?

It's in that context, when you cast a disapassionate eye over what "gay" means, in all its guises, that you realise that actually it can be generally quite depressing.

Is being gay really just about Kylie, poppers, Gaydar, gym, rent-boys, sex, clubs, drugs and designer underwear? Find me one gay man who's not into at least one of those things.

There has to be more to it than that?!

Answers on the back of a public toilet door please. Or a comment would be cool...!

Monday 13 August 2007

Gay acme

Are you eating? Good. Get a load of this:

A special thanks to everyone who's obviously very concerned about my wound. Or as some people call it, "the blister". Love you too.

Remind me when you're mortally injured so that I can come and nurse you back to good health. With an axe.

Ohmygod. This morning at gym I didn't see Jack (my future husband) but I did see the gayest thing I have ever seen in my er, well this year anyway.

It was so gay it would have made this (below) look like something you'd see on the rugby field at Twickenham.

Okay, so this guy's changing, he's a little on the podgy side and his aussieBums don't really fit.

At first I hear what seems to sound like coins or metal bangles jangling but I look up at this guy to see this shimmering silver hangy-thing.

He has a pierced belly button which isn't that camp except that the ring in his navel has a pendant hanging off it.

And the silver hangy-offy-thing looked like a fairy. Or something with wings, like a cherub or flying cupid.

Here's my super-duper diagramatic schematic scientific visual drawing:

Isn't a belly-button ring with an pendant hanging off it like the acme of gay?

It is the super-apex zenith of poofery. I cannot think of any one single thing that you could do to yourself that could be any more gay.

I don't know why it's bothered me but the image of that silvery-dangly thing has stuck with me all day. Maybe I'm secretly attracted to men with atrocious taste.

Anyway, have you ever heard of a Meme? It's a list of questions and then you fill out the answers. Well, I spotted this on ClosetCase blog, so I thought I would try and complete it.

Here goes:

Would you get back with your ex if you could?
No, he's a twat. Everyone at the time said "you're going out with him - are you out of your mind?". Looking back I now say "my god, I went out with him - was I out of my mind?"

What kind of shirt are you wearing?
A t-shirt. It's light blue

Have you made out with anyone on your MySpace list?
Don't have a MySpace account. I always remember a Post Secret card that said "it's my birthday and I didn't get a single card. Even though my MySpace account says I have 800 friends". Sums it up really.

Do you have "a thing" for anyone on your Top 8?
Enough about bloody MySpace, okay!

How many people on your list do you know in real life?
If you mention MySpace again I am not going to continue...

How many kids do you want to have?
Two

Do you have a good relationship with both your parents?
Yeah, oddly.

Do you make over £40k a year?
Whatever...money's not the be-all and end-all. (I'm not going to say that if I didn't...)

Name of a song you can relate to right now?
Can't think? Er, Like a Virgin. Or "Agadoo doo doo doo - push pineapple shake the tree"?

What name would you want to have besides the one you have?
I've always thought the name Anton sounds fierce. Guys with big muscles who play rugby are called Anton.

Would you ever make out with someone of the same sex?
Er, the question should be "would you ever make out with someone of the opposite sex"...

What's your mother's name?
Oi! Where's my inheritance?

What did you do for your last birthday?
Went up to Hampstead Heath with friends, had a picnic and got drunk.

What's the ringtone on your mobile phone?
It's permanently on silent.

What time did you wake up?
9 am but it's Monday and I refuse to "do" Monday mornings so I go into work late instead.

What were you doing at midnight two nights ago?
It was Saturday night and I was er, travelling home.

Do you like having your hair pulled?
What sort of question is that? Yeah, I fucken love it - what the fuck do you think?

Name something you can't do.
Play the violin

Do you get along with your siblings?
Yes - er, this is getting boring....

What is the one think you wish you could change about yourself?
I said boring - let's change the subject.

If you had £250,000 how would you spend it?
Shut up okay. Enough of the bloody questions.

How long have you been at your current job?
I thought I told you to shut up.

Last person you phoned?

Hey? Who?...

hello?

Bobby's Dodgy Music Collection CD #13

You've either heard of Pink Martini or you haven't. And if you have heard of them you either hate them or you love them.

I think they're fabulous and their new album Hey Eugene! is great but their best work by far is Hang On Little Tomato.

My favourite track on 'Eugene' at the moment is Dosvedanya Mio Bombino and from 'Tomato' it has to the violin and vocal intro on U plavu zoru.

Seriously, if you want to try something a little different go into a record shop and ask to listen to one of their albums. You'll either be thanking me for introducing you to them or you'll be going "what is this crap?"

I'm doubly excited because today I booked tickets to see them at the Hammersmith Apollo on November 10th with Anna, a friend from work who's one of two other people in the world who I know who loves them.

Sunday 12 August 2007

Countdown to thirty

Fuck. This morning I had a crisis. A major crisis.

I woke up in bed in a cold sweat, panicked. I ran around the house screaming and then sat down and told myself that everything was going to be okay.

Shit, tit. Get this, in 10 months' time I turn 30. Fuck. Ohmygod.

No offence but 30 is like - er, time to fill out the order-form for that mobility scooter.

I wanted to have done so much by the time I turned 30.

1/ I wanted to have released a record.
I studied music goddamit and I hear dance songs in my head that I think would make fuck-off floor-killers but I haven't got off my arse to actually do anything about it. Seriously, about four years ago, I was running around ranting "Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall would make the most amazing house track". And what happened at the end of last year?

2/ I wanted to have written a book.
I have about three books kicking around. The one that's nearly written is about a young Afrikaans boy who comes to London (the first rule of writing is "write what you know..." but no, it's not based on me - I'm not Afrikaans...) Anyway, so the first novel is on more than 20 pieces of paper and about 60 bits of card in a drawer. Shit-fuck, I need to finish it.

I'm there palpitating about the things I need to do but get bored of panicking so instead I sit down and pick my nose for a while.

I'll get around to that stuff when I feel like it. Or until I wake up in a week in another flat spin.

Anyway, having been accused of dousing myself in tomato sauce or just simply over-reacting, have a look at the following. It's my wound.

Wanna lick?!

That whole bit of skin peels back and you can see this white fatty stuff underneath. It's repellent.

Finally, Sunday ends in a complete smug-fest. London Preppy lets it slip that his biceps measure 14 and three-quarter inches. Not that I'm a competitive fucker or anything, but...

Naturally, I have to get the measuring tape out to see just these fuckers measure up:

Bobby's biceps

With the help of some tit-tape, I stick the tape to my arm and draw it around my bicep, pulling it tight. Goddam...

It measures more than 15 big'uns. I battle on with the silly tape and yes, my biceps measure just shy of 15 inches.

Then the bloody double-sided tape falls off and things go tits-up arms-akimbo.

Now all I'm waiting for is for someone to come along and tell me I'm doing it all wrong.

Putting my fingers in my ears, "la la la la la - I can't hear you". If you wanna come and help me with a second opinion, bring your own tape measure.

Bobby's Dodgy Music Collection CD #12

When I saw Gogol Bordello trotting out with Madonna on Live Earth I nearly threw their albums in the bin. Instead put them on and reminded myself of how good they were before they sold out to that silly woman.

I love the fact that they don't really sing, they scream and I love that my housemates call it "that fucking bouzouki music". That's the greatest compliment really, coming from them.

Start Wearing Purple rocks my world, especially the bit where he tries to hit the high note but just ends up shouting. And Think Locally, Fuck Globally is what I pretend my motto is. But it's not really.

Saturday 11 August 2007

Shootin' 'n scootin'

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Friday 10 August 2007

Not bottling it

The last two days have been so fucking tough work-wise. The last few hours have been hell personally.

The short story's that last night we were working out of London which always means that some of us are going to go out and get drunk. Just as I did.

So I've battled with a hangover today.

And when you're feeling shit and you get home after two fucken long days there's nothing nicer than another drink.

There's one voice inside me going, "Bobby, don't drink. It makes you feel like shit, it makes you fat, it makes you depressed, it makes you broke."

The other voice inside keeps chanting, "drink, yum, yum, full-bodied red, Pinot-Noir, yes, yum, drink!. Drink!"

I can't buy a bottle and have one glass because it means the bottle is still sat on the kitchen top. And that means I'll just polish it off tomorrow.

When or if I start I can't, don't or won't stop until I pass out.

Once I have a glass it's like the demons take over. I find myself walking to the shop on auto-pilot. My brain is going "Bobby, stop and turn back. Don't go drinking anymore..." but for some reason I can't stop it. Or myself.

Weeks go by when I don't even think about alcohol. Tonight's been different.

I'm tired, having had a huge slab of stress lifted off me and perhaps a little bored. I want just one drink.

I've done some washing, tidied up and munched on some almonds. Anything to take my mind off wanting alcohol.

I've always said that I would never become an alcoholic because I would hate to not be able to enjoy a glass of wine.

I love the taste of wine. I love the tradition of wine. I love opening a bottle and smelling the cork, especially if it's a beautiful South African red. I love pouring it and taking the first sip.

I love it when I'm able to taste it and go "god, this is big, fat, bold and scrumptious."

And a bottle later I'm onto another one. And the next morning I'm upset. Depressed. I don't go to gym. I stuff my face with food. I put on weight.

I've been there before. At 110kgs, I've so been there.

I'm going to go to bed. And tomorrow I'm going to wake up sober and without a hangover. I'm going to feel like a million dollars and I'm going to savour it - so that I can remember it the next time I'm desperate for booze.

Writing this has really helped too, thanks for listening. For now at least; wine? Whatever...

Bobby's Dodgy Music Collection CD #10

Phil Collins is a schmuck, he apparently divorced his wife by fax. But he can be so forgiven because of his music.

I love Genesis (something I inherited from my mother) hence I think Phil Collins is genius. But Seriously... is another of my prized albums. My favourite track is of course "I Wish It Rain Down", which was playing at a party when I first kissed a girl. Her name was Kerry.

I have a copy of this CD that my mum bought in South Africa and on the back of the album sleeve in big black letters it's stamped: "PHIL COLLINS IS TOTALLY OPPOSED TO THE POLICY OF APARTHEID". Legend.

Wednesday 8 August 2007

I dare you...

So I took my my gun* to work to fire off a few incase I got bored but thankfully I didn't need to use it.

Well I nearly did. One colleague came in wearing mixed prints so I thought a clean shot to the head would be an act of mercy really.

In the end I spared them.

Whatever. The most exicting incident of the day happened this morning at the gym.

So I'm there, getting changed into my kit.

A bench down is a guy who I see every morning. He is, quite simply, my wet dream.

We're usually there at the same time and he uses the same locker, near to the one I use every day.

"Fuck it - do you know last week I left my trainers here and somebody stole them. I suspect it was the cleaner because I saw him around my stuff when the shoes disappeared."

Oh. My. Fucking. God. Wet dream has just spoken to me.

My heart starts doing goddam somersaults.

"Shit man, that's crap - so was it the cleaner?", I ask.

And for the next few minutes he talks to me, mostly about how he suspects the cleaner stole his shoes.

He's standing there in his gym shorts with no top on. I just want to grab him and lick him.

I really can't concentrate on what he's saying because in my mind all I can hear is "fiiiiit....". "You are so fucking fiiiiiit."

By this stage he has stripped to a towel and I have a hard-on. He leaves to shower, parting with "have a good session, mate."

Fuck fuck fuck. I immediately have to weigh up the pros and cons.

Pro:
He's gay and he fancies me. Why else would be start up the most inane conversation?
Con:
He's straight and he thought I was too. He thinks I'm a normal straight person because if I wasn't there he'd have had this conversation with the hairy guy who has B/O.

Pro:
He's gay because he's got a tan although there are some lines on his back which shows he's been out in the sun recently with a vest on. Brighton Pride perhaps?
Con:
He's straight because gay guys never have dodgy tan lines.

Pro:
He's gay because he's clipped his "path to glory", or whatever you call it - the line of hair on your stomach to your crotch.
Con:
He clipped his stomach hair because he knows it shows off his sixpack better.

Pro:
He's so fucken fit he must be gay.
Con:
He's so fucken fit because he plays lots of sport and his girlfriend is er, active too.

At the moment I am 60% sure he's straight. Maybe 55%.

Whatever though, come Monday morning I am going to be there, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, ready to carry on the conversation.

The reason work was not so dull today was because I sat making the cards to our civil ceremony and planning our honeymoon to the Maldives. Where he will lie in the jacuzzi all day so that I can lick him. Like here, for example...

I don't know what his name is so I am going to call him Jack. I really hope there's a lot more to tell you about him. Please God.

And this is where you come in. To completely tempt fate I am launching a challenge.

You have to complete the sentence: "If Bobby shags Jack then Bobby (me) must...."

Your suggestions please. Everything will be seriously considered, from "running down Oxford Street naked" to "posting a video of himself jerking off on X-Tube". Please leave a comment with your filthiest suggestion.

* = I don't really have a gun but sometimes I wish I had. Just to liven things up a bit.

And I reckon I'll see Jack again on Monday morning because tomorrow and Friday I'm going up-country to do some work. I haven't seen him at the gym on the weekend. Therefore, roll on Monday morning!


Bobby's Dodgy Music Collection CD #9

The B-52s rock. Period. Their music instantly puts me in a good mood and I love singing along to it.

They were doing fabulosa glam pop long before the Scissor Sisters came along.

Cosmic Thing is my favourite album and while I've been writing this post I've been listening to the title track and Channel Z.