Bloody life

Was it John Lennon who said something like "life is what happens while you're busy making other plans?"

If he was alive today he may well have said "life is what happens which then fucks your blog up...".

No, seriously - where has the fucking time gone? Do you know when life completely takes over and you just don't have time for anything?

I walked into the gym at 9.30pm this evening.

Since Monday it's been getting later and later because the pile of work has been getting higher and higher.

I have to tell you though - since Monday, for three nights out of three at the gym, I've spotted the same guy wanking in the showers.

You would have thought after the second night he would have packed it in and headed for the (non-gym) sauna?!

And speaking of packing it in - seriously, I would have said something or tutted, which I usually do, but bloody heck he had an enormous willy!

The first night I wandered in on him and another guy - opposite each other and I nearly applauded, it was seriously big. The other guy was not at all attractive.

Deciding to shower opposite him I glanced a few times (it's funny how you can sometimes be transfixed) but then left. The novelty / excitement of the gym shower communal wank has seriously worn off.

I reckon he's not yet 30 and also quite short which made the size of his member look doubly impressive. The word 'dong' springs to mind. It's enormous.

So onto the second night and he's there again with his powertool and then again tonight.

When I left the changeroom for the gym this evening I spotted him heading into the showers. An hour later I got to the showers and he was still there.

I felt like passing the hat around, to raise some money for him to take a trip to the Chariots (London gay sauna). With equipment like he had he wouldn't be short of suitors.

Which leads me to wonder if size is important? Can I admit something?

Okay, once I was with this guy and things were getting frisky and we were about to start interacting and I reached into his pants (though not before he'd reached into mine first...) and felt around, fumbled and... er, !

If I'd clenched my fingers his stiffy wouldn't have poked out past the top of my fist.

And you really try not to react because it's so obvious what you're reacting too and then your emotion turns to pity and the mood dies a death and he must feel like utter shit (again).

But god, do you know - there's a converse to this story too. Once I've plucked up the courage I'll tell you about it.

Kom and Lek my Tromso

Do you know what the most irritating thing in the world is?

It's leaving work an hour early, getting to the gym and opening your tog-bag only to realise that you've forgotten your shoes at home. Fuck.

Anyway.

It's Monday night, the start of another week. What do you do on a Monday night? When winter's approaching and all the world is turning to long dark nights, what do you do? Where do you go?

Hell yeah, baby! Ikea...

The Ikea in Neasden (they like to pretend it's in Wembley but it's actually in shitty Neasden) is apparently the busiest in the world.

The place is packed to the rafters with arguing straight couples, flouncey gays, flatpack furniture and fucken meatballs. I love it.

My housemate needed a Billy and a Bergman and a Knobhead and a Smegma and a Poofrag etc.

So while she got lost amongst the Ingmars and Titgongs I found a nice comfy spot to relax.

In the end my contribution to the experience was these three Goodpoofs (?!) which I thought looked nice - except we don't have any pictures to put in them.

I think they sit quite well on the rosewood-coloured Billy and matching Vulva.

Oh god, is this not the most boring fucking topic in the world goddam world? I had a really fucken dull day - we went to the Ikea, it was shit and I bought tat.

Bla bla bla... Listen, suggestions for names of Ikea furniture would be greatly received.

So far I've come up with: Smegnor and Cunta. But what's a Poofrag for? And where would you use a Titgong?

Please leave a comment and the best Ikea furniture suggestion gets a signed photo of my Stiffknob which you can Leksvig for as long as you wish...

A quicky...

Listen, it' Sunday night and I know you're getting ready for school and washing your hair but I would just like to mention one thing, quickly...

Do you see this guy below, in the white rassling suite?

Can I just say, here and now, that I would like to tear that suite off him with my teeth and then eat it, all in one go.

If you know who this person is, please could you bring him to me asap.

Thank you for your time and have a great week.

Notice: 28 October 2007

Important Memo
To: The stocky guy in the gym who wears the very small shorts

From: Bobby

Dude, you really need to get a bigger pair, yeah?

The thing is, is that you're a very large lad. If you were a rugby player I'd play you up at the front, with the forwards.

I suspect you've probably done well at shot-put, at some stage in your life.

You look like the kind of guy who could push a Land Rover up a hill backwards while sat in a wheelchair with one of the wheels missing.

But the look doesn't really work when you wear a pair of shorts that a ballerina would struggle to fit into.

When you bend over to pick up weights, which are probably equivalent to a small convertible, your underpants ride and your butt-crack shows. But that's the least of your worries...

It's the architecture around the front that's becoming more and more difficult to avoid.

Like a lot of men, you're probably very proud of what's between your legs.

Indeed because of the shorts you insist on wearing, it's pretty obvious that there's a woman out there who's certainly not left wanting...

But please - it's really distracting.

It's not just the camel toe which protrudes on either side like two low-hanging medicine balls but the baby's arm too.

Your shorts are so tight that I would happily go to Ladbrokes and stake a £100 that you could be Jewish.

Sports gear at Lillywhites is really cheap, it's not the 70s and you're not a cyclist.

My pleading is not just for everyone in the gym who has to endure the full show of your crotch in widescreen but think of the children too.

All those millions of little potential children not swimming around but squashed together like balloons in a sock.

I hope you will read and consider this request.

Thank you, from all of us.

The new normal

I tell a story which prompts another and then a further one pops up! Funny that.

On Tuesday I told you of Ben, one of the really fit guys at gym. Who, sadly, is available for you at around £150-odd an hour.

Ping! An e-mail arrives; 'Bobby, have you seen this video?'

Hell no honey, I ain't seen anything like that.

The picture or video "grab" as it's known (grab being the operative word...) will take you to the page with the clip of "Ben" and his rather impressive dancing skills.

The white block is my addition.

It's funny because the only other city in the western world comparable to London is New York. And you when you think of them both you have this idea that they're big, enormous and anonymous.

Perhaps it's a little unnerving how, amongst the millions, it is possible to stand out and get noticed. But then again not everyone has a video of themselves stripping naked in a gay club posted on the web.

Anyway, on a completely unrelated topic that is gay, naked and sleaze-free...

I get a text from Colleague on Thursday night. Apparently what I have to do is make a new Gaydar profile, load some pictures onto it and send them to someone who's organising an orgy.

Apparently everyone's going to these, they are "fun" and take place in a flat in Islington. The first thing that strikes me is that Islington is not Eyes Wide Shut.

In case you missed this bit, Colleague is a colleague (d'ya see what I did there?) who I once had something with but we've moved on.

It ended mainly because he discovered that he had an interest that was incompatible to mine. Colleague likes to meet groups of men who enjoy shagging each other - all at once.

I text him back saying that my days of having a Gaydar profile are waning and it would be far easier to go to the ManBar for 'Underwear Sunday'.

What you do is you get there, strip off until you're in your knickers and shoes, put your clothes in a bag and hand it to the person behind the counter. It's not so much coat-check as it is an everything-check.

I know how it works because I went once.

I'd only been in London a few months, this big massive city. Me young, inquisitive and alone on a Sunday afternoon.

It's not strange to be walking around in a club in your underwear because everyone else is. Apparently it's a condition known as New-Normal.

Something like; if we all wore traffic cones on our heads, people without them would soon look like the odd ones out.

Anyway, you stand around in your smalls while people in the darker areas of the club have sex with each other.

I was so nervous I remember my leg shaking constantly. When you're that anxious there's absolutely no danger of nature taking over.

I was too scared to drink incase it was spiked and I woke up, chained to the bar while being eaten by scary gay zombies. Have you seen the beginning of the film Blade? Your mind starts to play tricks...

So I wondered around a bit, squinting to see what was going on while being groped repeatedly.

Underneath the glow of the TV playing porn there were three guys. One bending over, another behind him and the third crouching on the floor. He wasn't down there looking for his contact lens.

I looked and looked again. It was pretty obvious there was no condom.

Now, in South Africa 10% of the population has AIDS. For as long as I can remember we'd been drilled on safe sex and the dangers of AIDS.

Back in the ManBar, Underwear Sunday, looking at these three idiots I had a freak out.

Had you been standing next to me you wouldn't have noticed anything - inside however, I just knew I had to get out of there as fast as possible.

I grabbed my bag having only been there for about twenty minutes, got dressed and left. I don't know what came over me but walking to Southwark Tube I just burst into tears.

There are moments in your life where great chunks of your innocence get obliterated. That Sunday was one such occasion.

Growing pains

I've been inspired to post some pictures and I have to admit is quite fun.

I asked my Mum a while ago to send over some from Seth Efrika and copies of the originals arrived this morning (nearly a month late, no thanks to the striking postal workers...)

The first is me outside my first nursery school or play school or whatever you call it.

It was taken in Zimbabwe and I must have been about three or four years old. I have to mention that it was taken in Zimbabwe because it helps to explain the clothes.

My mother is clever and intelligent and witty but I cannot believe how she used to dress me.

This next picture is far more interesting because it shows the real Bobby.

Every week we would go to my grandparents for Sunday lunch. As upper-middle class white people in Zimbabwe it meant Sundays were the same every week.

Enoch the cook would prepare lunch while my parents sat outside drinking G&Ts. When ready, Enoch would ring the bell and we'd all go through to the dining room.

The only thing needed to be done was for the meat to be carved, which my grandfather always did.

I think this photo is rather prophetic really. Me with a mouth stuffed full of food looking thoroughly disinterested.

Judging by the hat it must have been on Christmas Day.

This was probably the last year we spent in Zimbabwe because we moved back to the UK shortly afterwards.

It's funny to look at old photos because you start to think about circumstances and wonder how different you life may have been if, for example, my parents had decided to stay in Zimbabwe.

Or what if I had studied harder at school? And what if I hadn't dropped out of University? And what if I hadn't spent much of 2004 drunk?

You can't ever live with regret and I don't but as one approaches 30, I have to say that it is nicer to be able to see consequences.

When you're young you sometimes repeatedly slam your fist on the big red button marked 'destruct' without ever thinking of what may happen afterwards.

Now I can consider what might happen, thanks to experience. Maybe growing up is not all bad? Whatever, enough of all this philosophical babble.

Listen, I saw the Hungarian porno-star at the gym earlier, I don't think I've told you about him. Let's make that a date for tomorrow, perhaps?

Ben the two of us

or "Adventures in the Gym".

Winter's approaching which means I have to change my schedule. Sadly it means no more gym in the morning, getting up at 7am is too cold and too dark.

Tonight I switch to going in the evening which is both good and bad.

Why good: Gym busy = more guys to choose from and stalk
Why bad: Gym busy = having to share / wait for equipment

Tonight though it's a blockbuster but I passive-aggresive my way in and do good chest but that's by-the-by. Who the fuck goes to gym to work out?

So I first told you about Ben a while ago.

Well, he's there again tonight, obssessing with his mobile phone.

From the amount of time he spends fiddling with it I guess he's going to be rather erm, "exercised" by the morning, shall we say.

Then it dawns on me and I hatch a little game I think would be marvellous to play!

I'm going to get his phone number from his website and if I see him working out again I am going to manoeuvre myself to be near him and then very discreetly text him.

Of course this would depend on him not seeing me but how funny would it be?

The first text would have to be something like "hey - you busy this eve? how much for an hour?"

It would be so amusing to see him get the text and watch him respond. Of course once he does then you turn up the fucken' volume.

The next text would have to be: "I really want you to sit on my face and wiggle - you up for that?"

Or: "I would love it if you were to dress in sweaty gym kit so that I can sniff your bum-hole."

The reaction you want is just for him to sit there completely unmoved as you text him things like "I wanna feel your hot man-jizz spunk out my eyes and sting them".

Actually, I don't know if I could do it because at some point I would probably burst out laughing.

Of course having said that, it hasn't stopped me saving his number on my phone, just incase. Suggestions for suitably outrageous texts would be very gratefully received.

Now the next part of the adventure involves some back-story...

About ten days ago I walk into the shower and hey presto! I interrupt two guys in opposite stalls wanking off to each other.

They both turn around very quickly but they - like I - know exactly what they were doing.

In "the old days" this would have maybe excited me and who knows, I may have joined in, but now... I have just seen it too much to be bothered.

I tut, move away and let them get on with it.

Cut to last week at work and I'm standing in the queue at the canteen with a colleague. I'm going to ask the question but you already know the answer...

Guess who I see in the queue in the canteen? Yes, (all together now...) one of the guys who was jerking off in the showers! Mwhahaha....

He glances at me and then very quickly stares at the floor. It is quite obvious he recognises me and knows exactly where from.

Now you would think "once bitten twice shy", well, would you fuck.

I walk into the showers again tonight and there he is again. I appear and he and a guy standing opposite both swing around very quickly.

Fuck this I think - I am going to shower right here. So I hang my towel up in the stall opposite him and start to soap up.

He has his back to me for a while but then turns around to reveal a major hard-on. I see this, shake my head, tut and move stalls. Sometimes it's fun to be Morally Outraged of North London.

About 30 seconds later I see him pass, briskly exiting the showers with his towel wrapped very loosely.

I cannot wait to see him in the lunch queue again!

Sucked out

Can I be really honest? I'm having a bit of a crisis.

We were having a brainstorm session at work on Friday that continued today. They usually involve spider-diagrams, bits of paper pasted all over the room, whiteboard makers and a lot of coffee. I drink water though.

We started talking about blogs and a colleague spat out that she thought that a blog was just for malignant narcissists concerned with their own self-importance.

Then someone else chipped in and said that a blog was just an opportunity for lonely people to build monuments to themselves.

I interrupted and said that actually, if written well, a blog can be quite entertaining or funny or, in some cases, quite poignant.

But I was cut off with "I don't know why they don't just put the blogs down and go to the pub and talk to each other?"

So I log on now and in my head I hear "narcissist", "monument to your lonely self" and "obssessed with your own self-importance".

Just count, in any random blog post, how many times the word "I" appears. Maybe they (my colleagues) have a point?

It's like someone has come along with an oversized Hoover and just sucked all the fun out of this. The wind has been completely blown out of my sails.

And that's my "crisis".

Though again, what kind of person has crises about things that are centered around their own sense of self-importance?

I don't know what else to say really...?!

It's all over bar the drinking

Que sera, sera. Whatever. I thought it was a bloody good display. The team did England proud.

Now you just have to try and avoid painful South Africans (not all, mind...) who're going to be even more arrogant and unpleasant than before. I really sympathise with you, if you happen to work with one.

My hangover isn't as awful as I thought it would be.

I decided to drink only champagne, a decision that seems to have paid off. Champagne (the real stuff) doesn't make me drunk and doesn't give me a hangover.

After the match I left the pub with Kerry, her boyfriend and Simon, our neighbour. They came back to mine to open the Veuve we had in the fridge. Fuck it - it's not going to last another four years.

So we polished that off and then dived into the wine rack to drown our sorrows. It was at around 2am that we decided to pack it in.

It was Napoleon who said "in victory you deserve champagne, in defeat you need it."

I couldn't agree more.

With those empties in the recycling box, I hope that Camden council bin collection don't assume anything.

Now is the hour...

I was there, as a schoolboy selling ice-creams outside Newlands rugby stadium on May 25, 1995 when South Africa ran out against world champions Australia and beat them.

I watched Nelson Mandela hand Francois Pienaar the Web Ellis Trophy and the whole of (white) South Africa cheered.

I don't remember how South Africa did in 1999 because I have to admit spent much of 1999 either drunk / fucked / asleep.

Growing disillusioned with living in South Africa, I left. South Africa to me is the country where I spent my teenage years, it is not a place in my soul.

I will always have Africa in my heart - no-one who's lived there ever gets it out of their system. Africa gets under your skin and stays with you for life. The rhythm of Africa is always with you.

Come 2003 I watched England romp to victory against the Australians at a pub in Covent Garden at 7am on a Sunday morning.

I had only been in London about 9 months. I sat there alone with my beer - I had very few friends. London was new and exciting.

Now is 2007. The eve of the Rugby World Cup Final, England v South Africa.

At around 6-ish I will head to the pub to meet friends; many South African, many English. There will be English beer and there will be boerewors rolls.

I will get a lump in my throat when I hear Nkosi Sikelele but I will sing God Save the Queen proudly.

There are so many memories and I know that whatever happens, it will all be very emotional. A world cup final always is.

I know this all is a little self-indulgent but I won't get a chance to say it tonight because I'll be too busy screaming so I thought I'd say it to you.

Tonight there will be singing and there will be shouting. There will be heart-stopping moments and there will be beer. There will be tears and I bloody hope there will be celebrations.

(There is a bottle of Verve in the fridge for breakfast tomorrow, just incase).

In my head I reckon South Africa will win. In my heart I know it will always be England.

If you get there before I do
Coming for to carry me home
Tell all my friends I'm coming too
Coming for to carry me home

COME ON ENGLAND

Numbers in my head

Apparently I've been tagged to tell you eight things about me that you didn't or wouldn't know.

This is difficult really because apart from my vile habits which include gym, binge drinking and using my mobile phone camera inappropriately, there isn't much else to me actually.

Of course that's a joke.

I also sometimes pee in the basin in the guest loo downstairs. So let that be a lesson if you ever come around for tea and biscuits.

(And whatever you do - don't use the fucking guest handtowel. There's enough spermatazoa on it to keep a fertility clinic in business for the next twenty years.)

Okay, the spunk on the towel is a joke too. It's a blue towel so any stain on it would show up rather quickly. Well, most stains anyway...

I'm not sure if admitting that I occasionally relieve myself in the basin counts as something you didn't know but maybe we should count that as number one? Seven more to go...

I have to confess at this point that I don't know how intimate these self-confessions need to be? I mean, I can be really personal if you like but I still want you to speak to me afterwards.

Which isn't what happened with one guy after I came in his mouth after I promised that I wouldn't. You want personal honey, I'll give you personal!

On my count that now counts as two pieces of info you probably may not have known about me. No, not that I'm a liar but that sometimes the mood can overtake the circumstances.

Incidentally, I did apologise but he still ran to the loo to spit. I smiled a wry smile after he swilled his mouth out and wiped his mouth off with the guest towel.

And on we plod... point number three of Things You Never Knew About Me (five more to go.)

I have a bizarre talent(?) for remembering numbers.

I can remember old phone numbers; my first mobile phone number was 082 8966 XXX, the first phone number when my parents moved to South Africa (21 years ago) was XXX 1179.

I can remember the 16-digit numbers on all my credit cards, my bank accounts, pins and passwords on all of my e-mails accounts are numerical. I don't use the address book on my phone because all the numbers are in my head.

I think, I say think that the knack comes from learning music at a young age. When I have kids and no matter how much they protest, they will learn music.

There is no greater pleasure in the world than music; playing it, listening to it and knowing it. Case closed.

So that's three and here comes four. Yes, this is a good one...

Did you know that I am slightly mad? Okay, I only say this so that you don't say it to yourself first.

I write down everything that happens in my life.

I write a diary, I write down my dreams, I note amusing things people have said and I write down things that have inspired me or repulsed me.

Here are just some of the books from this year that I have filled up.

I know I've said this before but if you write down an idea a day, at the end of the year you'll have the outline to a book.

At the end of the year write your book, publish it and sell the rights to a film company and that's £50,000 in the bank, in return for just keeping a little notepad.

Now, is that point number four or five? I've lost count.

I think it's time I found some time alone, just me and the towel from the guest loo.

Arm coming for ya

Everywhere you look it's bloody rugby, rugby, rugby... which doesn't actually bother me if it means that six feet of pure English beef is stood about ten metres from my desk. I swooned (a bit).

His Mattness was in the building spouting off about how England are going to win while generally just looking very fit.

Yeah, here are some pictures of him with less on...

We approve of this look a lot and we think it should be encouraged.

Except for the dodgy tanlines on the arm...

Speaking of arms, I have been exercising mine at the gym like mad. They are bloody sore. This is because I saw someone while out on Oxford Street on Sunday.

He was in a T-shirt and I was instantly attracted to him. He didn't look good at all and had a rather rotund stomach but because his arms were nice, big and chunky, I was like "hello!"

I think it must be a primal thing - people want big arms so that they can feel enveloped in them. It must be throw back to our basic urge for protection or something.

I'm sure Freud has something to say about it. He has quite to say on a number of things actually.

Take this guy for example...

The hair needs a chop and the earring isn't doing anything for me BUT! because he's got really nice arms, I have to say... I definitely would. Case closed?

Therefore, I've been doing triceps and biceps and hammer curls and lift and dips and pull-ups and now my arms feel like they have ten-tonne weights attached to them.

So what do they look like? Give me a week and I'll show you.

Down the pan

So I had the day off because it's er, Monday or something and I watched TV, went to the gym and took a turn in the Sainsbury's.

I needed a few things; tuna, water etc. We'd also run out of paper for the loo so I needed to get that too.

I don't know about you but I find buying paper for the facilities a very tricky process. I'm only able to do it if I can hide it in my gym bag.

If there's nowhere to hide the packet, I will not buy it.

Walking out of the supermarket with bog roll is one of the most embarrassing and shameless things in the world.

There are people who are happy with not even putting it in a bag and walking out with it under their arm. I wouldn't be caught dead carrying toilet paper in public.

I know we all do it but I really don't want evidence.

Sometimes we take the car out for a monthly shop and my housemate insists on hanging a 12-pack on the back of the trolley. From that moment onwards, I will have nothing to do with the process and keep a safe distance.

She is the one who has to smuggle it past the cashier and carry it to the car. I refuse.

And I judge people by the colour of their rolls. If I found out that the man of my dreams bought yellow or floral-coloured toilet paper I would have difficulty accepting him in my bed.

It's toilet paper, not an interior design statement for god's sake. The only colour it should be is white.

Rolls are to be hidden in the cupboard under the sink not paraded on the top of the cistern with fucking Ballerina Barbie stuck in the middle of it.

This ludicrous decoration is completely and utterly unacceptable.

Not that I want this blog to change your life or anything but the next time you skip out of the Sainsbury's with your 4-pack of toilet paper under your arm, think of what it's doing for your dignity.

Reputation down the pan if you ask me.

Rugby, balls, tackle, cliche

I'm never drinking again.

(at which point you have to say; "another Bailey's?" and then I say "yes, please...")

Anyway... so I'm never drinking again. Friday night was severly drunken and again last night with the rugby on I got hammered again.

Going to the pub I never said that I wasn't going to drink - I just kept saying "Bobby, don't go too mad."

Of course I got absolutely fucking wrecked.

Two things were nice about going to watch the rugby.
1/ England winning er, actually this list may go on a little longer than two...

So the first is England winning. Then, the crowd I was with, three of them are colleagues though we are friends.

Odd though it seems, at the place I work at it's common to make really good friends who become friends outside of work.

Infact it's the most incestuous place in the world when it comes to staff marrying each other. It's because we're all fucked up meedja types - and I don't mean that as a back-handed compliment.

So anyway the pub was packed and the second good thing was that rugby attracts a pretty middle to upper-middle class set of fans. Nice straight men with good hair and some taste.

Because England were winning there was a lot of communal hugging with quite a number of really fit guys. And hello! they instigated the bonding but like fuck am I going to say no.

At the end of the match Beautiful Matt - who I work with who's beautiful, he deserves an entire post actually... - put me in a headlock and rubbed his knuckles on my head. (does that have a name?)

I think it was the fastest time I have ever developed a semi.

Speaking of semis - because France lost it is only appropriate therefore be very cliched and post a worn-out picture of Frederic Michalak.

The third good thing about the rugby is that before I left I stuck £10 on "France up at half time and England to win". The odds were 10 to 1. £100 return isn't bad.

Titwank - I wish I'd stuck down £100. So I've immediately gone onto Ladbrokes and gone mad for the SA v the Argies. Obviously.

We've got money on:
Bryan Habana to score for SA
Monty to score points (I'm tempted to stick £100 on this given he's by far the highest-scoring player this tournament).... oh whatever, it's too boring to list them all. Listen, one bad thing happened.

I drunk-and-dialled and what's worse is that I have fucking Gmail on my phone which means the people I can't phone when I'm pissed, I can now e-mail.

My phonebill is going to make my fucking credit card bleed because I drunk-dial South Africa.

Do you know the person who phones you up and midnight slurring and screaming down the phone? I hate it when I'm that person.

I feel like shit. Shivvery and fragile and wooly and shit. I hate alcohol.

I am never drinking again ever.

Live to tell

I remember the moment like it could have just happened. The sound, the shouting and the panic.

It was a Sunday morning and I had been out all night - at a fancy dress party, December 2002.

I was 24 years old and earning a lot of money. I had a flat, an excellent job and on this occasion, on the way home to see my parents who lived on the outskirts of Cape Town.

In Africa the sunrises are as beautiful as the sunsets - the great ball of fire rising up over the mountains casting a majestic shadow over endless valleys.

That morning, me perhaps till drunk and a little high too, I was driving home.

It was the perfect Sunday morning. I would get to my parents and Elizabeth, our cook, would do me a fry-up. In Africa all upper-middle class families have staff.

I'd then shower and just as the blazing sun hit my bedroom window, I'd drop into bed; stomach full, clean and satisfied.

So there I was, in my car hurtling along a rural side road to Mum and Dad.

Admittedly the sun was in my eyes. And perhaps the windscreen wasn't as clean as it should have been. But I had my foot on the pedal, determined to get home as fast as possible.

The truck up the road had decided to just stop, the driver thought it would be a great idea to get let some of the guys off to have a wee.

They were municipal workers being taken to the depot on the back of a truck.

The vehicle was stopped in the middle of the road and there was me, hurtling towards it, dreaming of fried eggs and a shower.

We know I hit the truck at around 60 miles an hour because the speedometer needle was smashed in that position.

I remember the impact, the moment I hit the truck.

It all happened in a split second but I remember hitting it so hard that the car bounced back in its tracks.

Panicking, I struggling to get out of the car. The impact of the smash had crushed the front doors too and I couldn't push them open. I had get out via the back passenger door.

It wasn't just the sound of metal crushing, one of the guys had been knocked off the truck landed on the car.

I got out and remember just panicking and swearing fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I called for my parents on the mobile and my Dad got there as soon as he could.

The truck driver called the police and the ambulance. One of the guys was still lying in the road.

Soon we were surrounded by the emergency services and onlookers. My dad arrived and in the process of taking everyone's details, snapped the pictures you see now, for insurance purposes.

The guy who fell off the truck ended up with a broken collar bone. At least three of the guys on the truck suffered whiplash.

In a split second my car went from looking like this:

To this:

The policeman must have noticed my dad's rather large BMW because he was happy to be handed some cash. I was never breathalysed and no statement was ever taken.

I walked free of an accident in which you cannot even make out what type of car it was that I was driving.

I hit a stationary object at high speed and at least four other guys, older and perhaps fitter than me were injured.

And me?

I walked away from it without a stratch, I cannot explain how or why.

The sceptic in me says it was some set of circumstances which all came together at just the right moment to prevent me from being badly injured.

The car didn't have an airbag but I was wearing my seatbelt.

The fantasist in me says that something - perhaps someone from a higher source came down and put their hand in front of me to stop me being hurt.

Look at the second and last picture. I have smashed the car so hard that there isn't a windscreen left. The bonnet looks like crinkle paper.

Of course I could have been killed. At the very least I could have been badly injured. But for whatever reason I walked away from the accident, literally, without a scratch.

I'm done with thinking that maybe there was a lesson for me in it. Who knows. Maybe somebody before me that morning got the tombstone marked 9 June 1978 - 15 December 2002.

It was such a beautiful car though - the first one I bought with my own money. He was called Winston.

Nail them

I'm developing an acrid dislike for this guy at the gym. Let's call him er, Fuckwit and he has a Sidekick too.

Fuckwit has done nothing to me, he has never spoken to me. But that doesn't matter.

He comes with his mate - who I loathe too but not as much - and as they change they pose in the mirror.

Fuckwit and his mate think they are both fucking Adonises. In their minds they really see themselves as fit and beautiful. In reality they're not - and very far from it.

After they have admired themselves in the mirror they take to the gym floor, chests pumped out.

Fucknut and his mate unpack the heaviest weights, try to lift them, drop them and then don't pack them away. They then stand around and admire themselves in the mirror some more.

"God, we are chick magnets", is what I imagine them saying to themselves. Idiots.

They strut around the fucking gym floor like peacocks in a pigsty, complete with loose-fitting designer Nike tank-tops which show off their wobbly arms.

Fucknut has dark straight hair which he slicks back and he has hairy shit around his mouth in the style of George Michael.

His little sidekick Titwank Jnr also has dark hair which he spikes.

When I see these two - like Dumb and Dumbo - I want to walk up to them and blast them, like the alien does to the old woman in the Aphex Twin video.

"You're not fit. You're not muscular. You're fat and what you have is not muscle.
You are not Arnold goddam Schwarzenegger ... so stop trying to fucking lord it up as though you are.
You are a pair of fucking lard-arses and you're getting in everyone's fucking way, so fuck off you stupid fucking cunts."

Having stutting around in the gym for about 30 minutes they then make their way back to the changeroom where they take off their vests and again pour over themselves in the mirror.

Two delusioned straight boys who think that they are fit for the next Abercrombie catalogue. Is there anything worse than an arrogant straight man who thinks he's been delivered to earth, by God himself?

I keep saying to myself that I'm going to ignore them because why should I be riled by two arrogant idiots? I really loathe everything about them.

But make no mistake - slowly and surely, I am drawing my plans against them.

On a more postive note though I saw Jack again, the man I am going to marry.

This is the third occasion I have seen him this week and I have to say that things are going er, well they're not.

I do chest and he does chest. I do lats and hey presto there he is behind me. And tonight again he glances at me and I immediately look the other way. Why do I keep bloody doing this? Shit.

I'm still not sure whether he's actually even gay. Maybe he wants to say "do you mind if we share machines since we both seem to be doing the same routine."

I am going to get the following T-shirt printed. I figure it's my only chance.

After I finished I was getting ready to shower when in he walks wrapped in a white towel.

He is so seriously fit - and glancing at him I realise that when I finally do nail him, the first thing I'm going to put my lips to his lower back.

I can hardly snap pictures but this should give you some idea...

Will someone please just find him and bring him to me. Now. (I say this everytime, in the vain hope that...)

It's good to talk

I am essentially no different to everyone else. You spot people talking to themselves on the Tube or walking down Oxford Street and even at work.

I once heard a guy at work to himself while sitting on the throne in one of the cubicles.

No, I'm not going to belt out Barcelona while taking a dump but I figure since everyone else in this bloody city talks to themselves I might as well too.

Bobby: So what are you doing?
Bobby: Typing this post er...?

Bobby: Fair enough - what you listening to?
Bobby: Skunk Anansie but I find that I can't listen to music and type at the same time so maybe I'll turn it off.
Bobby: Good idea.

Bobby: You said in a comment yesterday that you were going to tell us about the guy were stalking at the gym.
Bobby: Yeah, Jack my future husband. Well I saw him at yesterday and things went awfully. I saw him again this morning.
Bobby: How did it go?
Bobby: Shitty.
Bobby: I think you'd better tell us about this.
Bobby: I will, I promise.

Bobby: You make a lot of assurances mate but sometimes the delivery is a little shakey.
Bobby: Fuck off mate, I'm sometimes busy and don't get the time.

Bobby: Well make time you fucker. You also kept telling us that you wanted to blog about the time you nearly died in a car accident.
Bobby: Oh yeah, there's that too.
Edit: I did end up writing about this. You can read the story here.

Bobby: And what happened about contacting this Paul guy? Have you done that?
Bobby: No - okay I'll make a list of all the things I have to write about!

Bobby: I don't want to hear lists and I wanna read stuff. And what the fuck are we listening to now?
Bobby: It's Vangelis. There's nothing wrong with Vangelis you know. Especially his early stuff.

Bobby: Whatever - how's gym going by the way? There's been a real lack of pictures recently.
Bobby: Hullo! I can't live my life, write posts and spend the evening photographing myself in my underwear.

Bobby: God, this music's making me sick. Can we please go back to Skunk Anansie.
Bobby: No.
Bobby: Er - mate, I'm making the decisions here.
Bobby: No actually, I'm in charge of the music dude.

Er, if there's anything you'd like to ask or chat about, hit the comment button. It saves me having an argument with myself...

Live like this

All I want is to live like Kath and Kel.

I've had the day off so have had a protein shake, been to gym and watched Series 1 and 2 of Kath & Kim.

I have decided that that is my life's ambition.

This is the house Kath and Kel live in and all they ever seem to do is er, nothing. All day. Except when Kel is occasionally seen to work.

And then at around 5pm every day Kath and her daughter Kim sit in the garden with a glass bottle of Chardonnay reading trashy celebrity magazines together.

That is my ideal life. And here's how it's going to be possible for me to live it...

1/ I am going to work bloody hard so that I can retire at 45. By this stage I will be married too.

2/ We (that's my husband and I) will then move to Napa in California where my sister lives.

3/ I don't know if I've told you but although my sister is three years younger than me, she is a lot richer. She's only 26 and already has her own bloody secretary and a house.

Moving to where she lives means we will spend all day, every day at her house watching her TV and eating out of her fridge so that we can save on bills and food.

My sister will sometimes get tired of us living on her couch so on the days when she does kick us out we'll go and visit a wine farm for extra-long boozy lunches.

Life will be devoid of the Tube and battling other women's trollies at the Sainsbury's and fighting with people over parking spaces and slavishly going to the gym every day and days of endless rain...

Instead it will be the sun, barbeques at my sister's house, lengthy lunches, walks in the vineyards, swimming in our massive rim-low pool and when the mood takes us, reading.

If this sounds like heaven to you, well, you're in luck!

I've decided to start auditioning for guys to play the part of my husband.

The role requires little or no experience but you do need to have the same lazy ambition that I do.

The rest we can make up as we can along. Fit blokes, apply within please.

Sneaky fags

This weekend has all been a bit blurred.

Firstly because I worked a 21 hour day on Friday / Saturday. 'Why' is a long and boring story and I managed to get a nap between 2 to 3am but it was all pretty stressful.

Then on Saturday I watched the rugby and took a turn at a club for a friend's birthday party. I didn't drink much (a Corona...) and was in bed by 1am.

However, I've started a rather bad habit. It's crept up on me and it's happening while I type this.

I always used to say I was a social smoker and I seriously was. Except er...

Bobby only has cigarettes when he's on full bender at club.

Or sometimes when he's having a drink.

Bobby only has cigarettes when he's on full bender at club or sometimes when he's having a drink and if work gets stressful. Or if he's bored.

I think since Friday I've had about 10 cigarettes. And I really hate it and them. Urgh!

I have to stop. No more "social" smoking and no more sneaky fags.

I've just put out the one I was half smoking now.

My friend Nick started smoking when we were 16 and was at one stage plunged to a 60-a-day habit. It happens so quickly - that slippery slope. He's given up now though.

Urgh. The taste is disgusting and it rapes your lungs. Yuck, yuck, yuck.

Today, along with those awful "parties" I'm also throwing fags (cigarettes) into my life's dustbin.

I've always resisted the temptation to buy a packet because I somehow think that's a line too big to cross.

And I really hate "fucken Bobby always smokes my bloody fags, why doesn't he buy his own..." which is a reputation I must have with some people.

When I was in school one of the careers I wanted to get into was graphic design.

I thought (still think) the John Player Special logo is one of the coolest brands because of the sexy design.

I remember buying a packet (just because of how nice it looked) and inhaling the first one.

It was the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted and I remember gagging and probably nearly puking.

It's a pity I didn't have the same reaction the first time I kissed a boy.

Bobby's comin'...

It's funny how school leaves his indelible mark on your whole life.

So, I'm 29 years old and I'm an adult.

I'm out of the closet and I don't care about what others think of me. Life is not being like in a classroom anymore.

Last night I went to bed early and started to wonder where Paul might be in the world.

I suddenly thought 'why the fuck am I so scared to try and track him down and get in touch?'

Then I realised it was school. I still have that petrified feeling of being caught out. Of Glen walking into the dorm and catching me sitting on top of him.

But who the fuck cares now? And why am I so scared?

And so I started my mission to find him. I want to know what he's up to. He was a huge part of my life in senior school for nearly four years and of course I'm curious.

Googling his name returns 1 result from some US archive in the 1920s. An MSN search shows up exactly the same data.

He's not on Facebook or Myspace. And not on Bebo or Friendster.

The easy option would be to ask one of his or my old school friends on Facebook but what if they said, "I don't know...".

I don't really want to be e-mailing our whole class of 128 guys going "do you know what happened to Paul Jones (not his real name)". It would look seriously odd.

Then I try our school's Old Boy's website, his name is amongst a long list on a page headed: "We've lost contact with these Old Boys. Please help us to get in touch with them..."

So I decide to widen my search and bingo! He's got a profile on LinkedIn.

Fuck... "Paul Smith is not currently open to receiving Introductions or InMail". I try and fiddle around to see if there's any way I can get in touch but it seems I can't

It is definitely him because his real name is a pretty unusual one. I see he's in banking and it says he lives in France.

I can't remember his mum's name but he did have older sisters. I Google his surname and get back around 900 search results. It's a start so I being to trawl through them.

Then, yes! I remember he had a sister called Lee. Googling her name, I get an e-mail address, hers is the only one.

I write my e-mail, suck in a large breathe and send it. Fuck knows what will happen now.

All I want to tell the guy I spent four years in love with, just what I was feeling.

A pack of carbs

I drink protein shakes and eat sushi. And there's fruit and snacks are tins of tuna and the occasional rice cake (which smells like shit, really...).

Sometimes I have some grilled chicken or those silly Tesco baton carrot thingys. A snack may be a small tub of Greek yoghurt with honey.

But fuck me I want carbs so fucken badly.

I was walking home from the Tube station past the Pizza Express and there were people eating pizzas. I wanted to go in and snatch them off the diners' plates.

I want a pasta and a beer. And spaghetti. And a nice big fat slice of bread with Nutella. And beer.

And more pasta and a pizza and a huge French baguette with some Camembert cheese and red wine.

Oh God, give me carbs.

If you bring me carbs we can lie in bed together and eat them. Red wine and cheese. And French baguette and pasta.

I am going to dream of them tonight I know it.

This picture distresses me about as much as something showing animal abuse or a naked woman.

Just one little carb food thing. Just a little slice. Or a string of spaghetti. Give it to me. Help.

More Paul

Towards the end of the year it was exam time and if guys weren't sitting they could stay in the boarding house under the auspices that they were studying.

Paul and I were among a handful of guys who hadn't got an exam, weren't studying and decided to go down the pool for a swim.

I remember going into Paul's dorm and he was lying on his stomach reading a book, wearing a Speedo. He was planning to go swimming but was engrossed in his novel.

Sitting on the corner of his bed I asked him what he was reading.

Turning over he put his hand behind his head, lying on his bed in a black Speedo showing off the full length of his amazing body.

Bryce's Courtney's The Power of One - the book most guys at the time had either read or were reading.

He turned back onto his stomach but put the book down.

"My shoulders are really sore from lying like this", he said.

I can remember what he said as clear as though it could have happened five minutes ago even though this was more than a decade ago.

Next minute I was sitting up against his back massaging his shoulders. He kept saying how strong my hands were. I told him it was really uncomfortable, sitting and leaning over him.

One thing led to another...

So there we were, me sitting on his bottom leaning over and massaging his muscular back and shoulders. I think I must have been drooling.

Here I was, in such an intimate position touching a boy I had lusted after for years. All I could feel was electricity. There was elecritity surging everywhere and in my crotch too.

Suddenly I stopped.

"Carry on" he said, his head to one side and his mouth squashed by the pillow.

I couldn't help myself but I couldn't carry on. I sat there on his bottom, excited and petrified of what was going to happen next.

Fuck it. I leaned down putting my hands on the top of his arms and kissed the back of his neck.

Suddenly everything happened very quickly.

He reached his arm back and put his hand on my thigh and just at that moment there was a noise at the top of the stairs outside.

I lept off Paul and scrambled to sit on the bed nearby, he grabbed his book to continue reading.

Enter Glen asking us if we were coming swimming or not? I could feel the blood draining from my face and other regions.

The mood disappeared in an instant.

I got up off the bed and walked to the pool with Glen. Paul said he'd be down shortly.

We never spoke about what happened and the situation never presented itself again.

Three months later I had finished my exams and left school for the last time. I have never seen or heard of Paul since. God I loved him.

I still hold this story so close and I always wonder what may have happened if Glen had never appeared. When I watched Brokeback Mountain it brought back all these memories. After watching the film I cried uncontrollably for nearly a week. I still wonder whatever happened to Paul.

I really, really loved him so much. So close but yet so far.

Message in a basket

Yeah, thanks for listening to me moan about feeling like shit.

I feel better now because:
1/ I had a good night's sleep
2/ I've been to gym and worked-out
3/ Er, that's it

I haven't heard from Colleague but I know he'll text tomorrow with something like "you missed a BIG lot of fun..." etc.

After gym I have to take a turn into the Sainsbury's to pick up some tuna, skimmed milk, water and dishwasher tablets.

Walking to the diary shelves I make a spot! I think it's a record, October 2nd and look...

Next it's going to Carols and cold weather. In a way, I can't wait because I always love Christmas time.

Growing up for most of my youth in South Africa means it's always been hot on Christmas Day so I love the novelty of having shit weather at the time.

And I can already tell you what I plan to do for New Year's...I did it last year and it was the best New Year's I've had in ages.

I started at my first party and left it at around 10.45pm and made my way to Parliament Square (non-Londoners: it's the huge tract of grass opposite the British Houses of Parliament).

Along the way I bought a bottle of champagne and sat on the grass in the Square from about 11.15pm, phoning friends in South Africa and people I hadn't seen that night in the UK.

At about 10 minutes to the hour there was huge excitement and everyone began to blow trumpets and dance around.

And music started playing and Big Ben counted down and the London Eye lit up with the most wonderful fireworks. Midnight!

At around 12.30am I wandered down the South Bank (I have never seen London so full of people) to a second party.

I saw two parties' worth of friends that night and as the clock struck midnight I was doing exactly what I wanted in the heart of the city I call home.

So if you're in the area at the end of the year and wanna bring along a bottle of bubbly, I'm sure can make space on the grass for you too.

However, finally in the queue in Sainsbury's I realise my life's ambition.

I am standing waiting to pay and in my basket there are tins of tuna, smoked salmon, skimmed milk, bananas (which I hate but they taste fine in the blender with protein shakes) some water, dishwasher tablets and gym socks.

The guy behind me is rather plain, conservatively dressed with a pretty ordinary build. He has a leather bag over his shoulder and I don't spot a ring on any of his fingers.

In his basket he has a Pollo ad Astra ready-made pizza, a packet of Chorizo which I reckon he's going to put on the top when it's heated as well as a nice bottle of red wine.

There isn't a tin of tuna or skimmed milk in sight.

He doesn't care that he doesn't have a sixpack. He doesn't care that his dinner will be a glut-fest of complex carbs.

He will sit and chomp his pizza and gulp his beautiful red wine until he falls into a nice soft bed and drifts off too sleep.

I realise that that's all I want in life. One day paradise will be mine too.

Until then, I'm going to do some sit-ups before bed.

Two's company?

I'm really irritated and upset. And just generally fucked off and depressed. And do you know, it's at times like this that I think maybe straight is a viable option.

Tonight I nearly had a repeat of an episode that happened previously with Colleague.

Colleague as you may remember is just that. We went out and used to work together, he now works in a separate part of our (very large) office and see each other for lunch occasionally.

And sometimes he texts me and I go around to his place for a few hours. We don't watch movies when I'm there, mind.

So I'm just finished at gym, around 7pm and a text appears from Colleague. "You fancy coming around tonight?"

My gut just says 'Bobby, say no...' but before I know it I'm sitting on his couch.

Before getting there I had explicitly said "It's a week night, a kiss and a fumble's fine - not interested in anything more...". He assured me this is all he wants too.

But having been there just five minutes his phone goes and shortly afterwards there's a knock on the front door.

A guy has magically appeared out of nowhere, was just passing by and pitches up.

Of course I don't want to labour the point because you can see where this is headed and it was really difficult not to completely throw a huge goddam strop.

Colleague has organised something and not told me because had he done so, I wouldn't have traipsed across London.

I go to the kitchen and Colleague follows me there.

"Come on - it'll be fun - he's really fit..."

"You lied to me to get me here and I feel like a hooker and I want to leave".

"Just stay, once you've got your clothes off and the guy is into you, you know you'll have fun..."

On my way out having bitten my lip to avoid getting violent a fourth bloody guy arrives.

It's what this fourth guy said and did that really upset me.

In the hallway he drawls, in his over-confident Antipodean accent; "ah man - you're not going ah ya - why didn't you bastards wait for me (grabbing my arse), I'd love to get more of that..."

I laughed and thought "you cnut", with a capital 'K'!

At the door Colleague tried again to get me to stay but I said no. In the background one of the guys was already unfurling a piece of folded up paper.

Firstly I'm irritated that I was lied to. I'm irritated that I was there to up the numbers because one of the guys thought I'd be great naked.

"Yeah, once I've done with one of you I'll have a go with your mate". Not.

Sitting on the Tube back home I deleted Colleague's number from phone. It's the last time he makes me feel like a QX slag and I'm not speaking to him again.

And I looked at the straight couples sitting on the Tube.

Are their lives about group sex on a Monday night? And gear. And "horned-up chem sessions..." and "I'd really love to watch you fuck my mate" or "did you bring porn" or "anyone bring lube?" or "..."; I could go on. So I will...

It's not just sex and threesomes and boyfriend-swapping and porn and "ooh, look, he's fit" and "shall I log onto Gaydar and see if anyone else is about" and all set to the sound of some vacuous Kylie Minogue song.

I'm glad I left and I'm glad I kept my knickers on because at least there's some dignity in that. Or in this shallow world of "gay" is leaving with your dignity a sign that you're just uptight?

I think what's really upset me is that the two other guys were quite fit-looking blokes. Like you, like me. Is everyone doing it am I just the prude?

I hate it. Being gay is not about feeling shit because you walked out on the chance of a group shag.

Or am I just missing the whole fucken point?

Those drag queens at Stonewall in the 60s or whenever didn't risk getting beaten within an inch of their lives just so that poofs on Monday night could tally up for an orgy.

There has to be more to it than this. Or is this what being gay's all about?