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:



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.