Friday, 30 November 2007

Slopping off drunk for sex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was 23 fucking years old at the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, 29 November 2007

Column inches

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

I'm the blue blobs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least it would save me a fuckload of typing.

Wednesday, 28 November 2007

Substances for sex

Yesterday evening I though I'd just let it all hang out.

There are a lot of people who know different stories but not one person knows all of them. I guess, in a way, that's how I've managed to get away with how I behaved.

However, I've started a tab called 'Confess' which will link all my admissions in the same place. I'm nervous and apprehensive about doing this but fuckit.

What happens is I start to remember one story and it triggers another. It all happened between 2000 and the very beginning of 2003.

I've started to make a list of the particularly hideous moments and I'll work through each of them, one by one.

This is just to remind me of each story as I go along. As I trawl up each one, so I'll link them to this list.

1/ Substances for sex is here
2/ Suburban TV shag
3/ Catatonic at dinner
4/ Rent with the yapping mobile
5/ Sunday morning sleaze (mutiple rents)
6/ Banging the door down for work
7/ Clapped out
8/ Studio zonked
9/ Watching muscles
10/ Good-bye Mr S

And just as I've finished that so more comes to mind.
11/ Slopping of drunk for sex...
12/ Bushes at the station

Let's start with number 1; Sex and substances.

The thing that makes this so trashy is that I had forgotten about it / blotted it out. Someone found me via someone else on Facebook and I got a message saying "ohmygod - it's you! Remember me?"

Usually if they're from Cape Town (mainly) this message will make my heart sink. We'll call the guy who sent the message "PR's friend".

So what happened was there was a group of us that were due to appear at a club's birthday party. (Oh fuck, I've just thought of another story, number 12...)

We'd been paid, about six of us to appear.

One of the guys I recognised because he was the face of a shopping chain in South Africa (that's another story), the other was a famous male model. I think there was a Big Brother contestant thrown in for good measure too.

I got pretty drunk from the outset - all of us "important people" crammed into the VIP lounge with free booze.

It wasn't long before the male model approached me. As the loudest, most arrogant one he probably though I would have access to various substances.

The male model was apparently famous (and fucken gorgeous) so how could I not say "let me see what I can organise." He was definitely straight.

I put the word out that I was looking for some "stuff" and it isn't long before one the PR's friends said he had and was willing to share.

The PR's friend was middle-aged, fat, camp and I'm sure had a toupee. He had also been sweating a lot and white a loose-fitting white shirt, untucked. Get the picture?

There's no other way to put this so here's what happened.

The PR's friend said he fancied me and had seen me at a previous event. He said he was willing to share his stash on one condition. The condition was that he could blow me.

And that's what he did, in the parking lot at the back of the club.

(Not that you really need to know this but he insisted I cum in his face.)

Afterwards he handed me a folded-up piece of paper, I went back inside and handed it to the male model who became my new best friend. For about a minute.

By now I was drunk, sordid and the PR's friend would not fucking leave me alone. He spent the entire evening in my personal space, touching me, joking and putting his arm around me as if it was his right. And given what had happened, what else could I do?

The model and his girlfriend had fucked off, obviously.

Thankfully I left and didn't throw away my last ounce of dignity by going home with the PR's friend, despite him begging and offering more substances. What a pig.

The next morning I must have woken up in my flat alone, fat, depressed and probably went out and gorged on McDonalds. And so the cycled continued.

Tuesday, 27 November 2007

Start at the very beginning

(I sat debating with myself for about 10 minutes before pushing publish because if I start, I have to see it to the end. That means tell everything.)

Yeah okay, I'm really excited.

So in February I am getting onto a 747 and flying to Seth Efrika, more specifically to Cape Town (or Keptun as the locals call it).

It's my annual holiday and everytime I go I just ... okay, it will be the fifth time that I'm going. I will have been in the UK for five years.

When I left Cape Town I did so because I was just sick and tired, embarrassed, jaded and bored. I also had a mountain of issues and I figured that leaving South Africa would make them all disappear but about a year into London, they all came flooding back to haunt me.

What are the issues?

Okay. If you keep this relatively quiet, I'll tell you a story or two.

(Sit back because this could get long but I promise it won't be that boring. Unless you count sex, celebrity, drugs, McDonalds and rentboys as somewhat tedious.)

Okay the first thing you should know and I'll just come out and say it, is that back in South Africa I used to be on the TV. And I used to be on the radio. And also in magazines.

I was 23 and I was made a part of something I was too young to handle or comprehend how it would affect me.

Fuck, all the stories I could tell you are enough to fill a blog on its own.

But being that young and having parents/managers etc. push you and being on the radio and on TV and in magazines while trying to mainly hide your sexuality (even though it was nearly an open secret) was shite.

As I write this so the memories (I don't know if they're mortally embarrassing or devastatingly funny) are flooding back.

Maybe I should make a list of them and battle them, one at a day. I can't tell it all in one post.

Yeah - maybe one story at a time is best. So let's start with something tame.

Deep breath.

I was invited to be part of a (celebrity) strip-for-charity event. I was young, I was naive and at that stage I wasn't overweight and unhappy. Of course I leapt at the chance.

There were five "celebrities" and we each had a go. Basically the auctioneer would raise money to "pay" for each piece of clothing we took off, right down to our boxers.

I remember being so nervous before walking on stage, petrified in fact. I had a glass of wine beforehand which quickly turned into a few.

The memories are sketchy and I just don't remember exactly what happened however...I know I poured champagne into my shoe and drank it because there were photos of it printed in the newspaper the next day.

The article was about the "fun" auction and it painted me as Bobby the pissed-up contestant who staggered around a stage to raise money. Everyone gave because they were too embarrassed to do anything else.

You always knew things were wrong when people, instead of praising you, would say nothing at all.

No-one ever mentioned that fucking charity auction again. The PR company who ran it didn't even send a thank you card to me for doing it. Another guy I knew, who took part, was sent a bottle of expensive champagne.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I keep putting my head in my hands when I start to think about this.

Where the fuck was my dignity and my self-esteem? Fuck knows. I just don't know where to begin. There's more. Much more and much worse.

Maybe that's what a blog is all about - airing the things you have kept hidden away inside for so long?

Perhaps it's time I just came out and said it all. Help.

Monday, 26 November 2007

Muscled up

Jesus wept.

Do you know, when they said "Bobby, we get to get our team out for a Christmas do", I didn't think it would be that fucken complicated.

How bloody wrong was I?

What a bunch of goddam er, no... What a fucken fool am I for agreeing to arrange it?!

First it has to be in Soho and it has to be sit down but some people don't wanna eat and others want to sing karaoke and then the pizzas are wrong and then it's too expensive or too "West-End-ish" or too trashy.

I'm in a mind to tell my colleagues the Christmas do is in Vauxhall and they're all on the guest-list. It's leather or naked, the party's called Fist and they need to bring a big black dildo to fuck themselves with.

Merry fucken Christmas to the lot of them.

Titwank, do you realise that in a month it will be er, Boxing day! Where has the fucken year gone, hello!

Now listen, tonight in the gym, ohmygod. Oh. my. God.

The biggest guy I have ever seen in my life is there. Seriously.

He was literally about as big as this guy...

And the most intriguing part? He was there, with his mate, the Hungarian gay porno star!

Actually, that wasn't what was intriguing. The most puzzling thing was watching the straights around him.

They all started preening and flexing and staring like their eyes were caught in the headlights.

It was so bizarre, like watching a load of stunned peacocks. It got me thinking...

Between him and his porno-star mate, they were huge. They were also literally being eyed up and down by the other guys.

I thought what would happen if one of them were to get the baby oil out and lasciviously start rubbing up his mate, in a really, really seductive manner?

I reckon each of those "straight" boys would get seriously aroused.

No really, I reckon on a deep psychological level when they look in the mirror, pumping themselves up, they're attracted to what they see (i.e. their male form).

So if you put two really muscular guys together and got them to get all horny with each other - I bet the straights would be rising to the occasion all over the gym floor.

I think this would be a valuable anthropological experiment - to show that in some ways - everyone inside is at least little bit gay.

Of course for some it would be seriously hot - though I have to say, when they're that big - nah, not for me.

Though I SO wanted to have a poke. You never know with these guys if it feels like rock or like marshmallow.

In other news, yes - the ornament that's now become known as Andrea's Throne is still sat in the pavement outside my house.

(How could anyone not want a free toilet!?)

And yeah, and this is the 100th post I've made on this blog. Do I get a prize or something?

Maybe I'll have a celebratory wank this evening. Well, no change there, then.

Saturday, 24 November 2007

Crying on the pec-deck

Sorry about that. I said I would post a pic and then I disappeared. Yeah, thanks for being so concerned like.

Oh, nothing important I just worked a really long day yesterday and didn't get a chance to sit down in front of the lapdog.

So I think I was going to show you something wasn't I?

Without further ado, here it is...

Yeah, why the hell would you leave your toilet out on the pavement?

I wonder if whoever threw it out, knows it's there?!

Okay, okay - that's not why you came. Now listen - do you know - I am actually quite zen about this.

About a year ago I would stress that I wasn't tanned enough. And I would stress that my chest hasn't been clipped. And I would stress that the hair under my arm needed sorting out but do you know... now I'm zen about it now.

All of that stress and anxiety was merely hiding the fact that I was not looking as good as I might be.

Don't get me wrong - there's still loads to do, firstly I really need to get my stomach in order. But it's okay. And I'm okay.

Here's a reminder of times past...

And times as they are now.

It's untouched and unedited.

Has it been difficult to do that? You fucking bet it has.

And seriously - you can read all the fitness magazines and books in the world, they help marginally. I'll tell you the one thing you need to change the way you look (and save yourself the money and time of trawling through endless books).

It's one thing only; perserverance.

Obviously I wanna look better - I'd love more definition but for the moment, fuckit.

My biceps are noticeable, my chest sticks out further than my stomach and my shoulders are wider than my waist. That's all that counts.

Of course all this self-confidence will be completely knocked as soon as I see someone with a really fit body. And then I resort to self-loathing, depression and unhappiness.

This is when I go to gym and cry while sitting on the pec-deck.

Thursday, 22 November 2007

The lights are out

So I says to ya, "look at me, I was fat and unhappy and now I'm looking okay, if you don't believe me, I'll post a pic for you."

I should have known that having said that, it would completely jinx the whole thing.

Arriving home tonight, the usual parking space is buried under a mound of earth about the size of a small van. There is an EDF energy truck in the road and none of the street lamps are working.

One of the guys in the lumo jackets says I shouldn't expect the lights to be on anytime this evening.

Yes, I am sat in a poxy internet cafe run by a bunch of robed Somalian dissidents. It seems the only way they know how to communicate is by shouting.

According to the poster above my head, I can phone India, Pakistan and Nigeria for just 5p a minute.

Since I don't know anyone in those countries I can't take up the offer. Obviously I'm gutted about this.

Earlier at the gym I was desperate to spot Mr Blobby - the man I am supposed to be marrying. He ain't there and neither is Rory.

And then the battery on my iPod runs out. Bollocks. I give up, shower and leave.

Do you know, I kinda had a premonition that I was going to have a bad day, when I left for work this morning.

You know how some people throw out things like old TVs and printers and leave them on the pavement? This morning I had to walk around an abandoned toilet that someone had tossed out.

I should have known that that wasn't a good sign.

Now I hate to beg but... listen - the lights at home aren't going to be on until tomorrow sometime. Of course, I can't spend an evening in the dark on my own.

If anyone has a space in a spare bedroom, or their own bed that they'd be willing to give up for one night only, I promise not to fart.

Failing that, I may have to resurrect my Gaydar account, to find someone who's looking for an overnighter. If that doesn't work I could go to the sauna in Vauxhall and hire a cabin for the night.

So that photo I promised of me is going to have to wait for another day.

Right now there's a woman in a robe in one of the phonebooths along the wall down at the bottom of this internet cafe shouting like crazy into the phone.

I don't know why she's even bothering to use the phone. I bet if they all shut up in Senegal they could probably hear her from here.

At least she'd save about 7p a minute.

Wednesday, 21 November 2007

Running down the gym

So London Preppy came to assess my gym which you probably may have read about.

I thought it would be a little fun - and it's kinda weird too now that I think about it.

Someone who I've never met before, for a moment, comes to get a first-hand glimpse into my life while I'm not there.

A lot of my time is spent at the gym, about an average of three days a week for the last three years. In sense it means a lot to me.

You may have seen these pictures before, you may have not, but they're of me.

They were photographed from an old mobile phone so they're a little grainy but what isn't difficult to decifer is my waist.

You can also see the total lack of pectoral development and basically, I just look a complete mess.

They were taken in January 2005, shortly after New Year when, at the time, I was going through a pretty rocky period in life.

I had a job I seriously hated and couldn't do, I drank excessively and somehow managed, in the previous year, to rack up a massive debt.

I flew first class return to South Africa, bought laptops and CDs and clothes and ate out and got drunk on champagne most nights.

I was running away from myself, trying to drown my sorrows in booze and then shopping on the bank's money to try and make myself feel better. In short, I was in a very bad place when I took those pictures.

The next morning I decided to do something about it and signed up for the gym. It is gym I am still go to.

It is now November 2007. That debt (£12,000 / $24,000 at the time) is all but cleared. You know that I now probably drink once a week if that.

And my waistline?

Well, you can see in my profile picture - the one on the right of me standing in front of the Union flag - just how much I've changed.

All I'll say to you is that that picture is nearly six months old.

People criticise and they say; "oh, you're so gay because you're always at the gym" or "you're such a body fascist because you spend so much time there". Usually I just nod, smile and change the subject.

I never say to them that it actually nearly saved me.

Stick around and tomorrow I'll post a few pictures, to show you just how much things have changed.

It's not body-facism, it's not "gay". It's about just doing it. I know that sounds cliched but it's the lesson I've learnt, through blood, tears and a lot of sweat.

Tuesday, 20 November 2007

First contact

Lads, the wedding is right back on. Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. We've had contact.

Yes - oh lord, it was at the arm machine. He came over to me, my heart skipped a beat.

"Are you nearly done?", said he.
Me, smiling the biggest smile; "yes - I will be in a second, mate..."

I worked out for another 5 seconds more. "Mate, I'm all done now", said I, casually touching his arm.

Serious lingering eye-contact happens and I get a semi.

Ohmygod, ohmygod. I now forgive him for wanking in the gym showers.

I have just been down to Hatton Garden to prospect His & His gold bands. It looks like I may be slipping his ring on afterall. (Pun very much intended...)

It sounds okay, doesn't it? "We met in the gym."

Now that we're passed first base we can start on the casual chit-chat. You know the "mate, do you mind just spotting me" (aka standing over me so that I can see up your shorts) etc.

Hopefully I'll learn his real name sometime soon. For the moment, he's still Rory.

I'm so excited I am going to think about him as I fall asleep tonight (yes, that's euphemism for "as I toss one off...")

Tomorrow, however, I'm going to have to give the gym a miss, because I've had to call in the help of London Preppy.

I go to gym alone, I prefer it that way. It means I don't have to talk to anyone and can turn on my iPod and not be disturbed.

The downside to this is that sometimes one does need a second pair of eyes, to assess the talent where necessary. So tomorrow, London P (who you may have guessed has some experience in the gym - have you seen his sixpack?), has graciously agreed to be my second pair of eyes.

He has been given a pass, a list of who's who and he's going to assess their suitability or not. This is also good because having a second Gaydar working will help me too, in the long run.

The great thing about my gym is the range of people who go.

Celebrities go, hot straight boys do, hot gay boys also (me, obviously) and even the odd Hungarian gay porno star.

Hopefully they'll all pitch and we'll have a full house. I can't wait to read the results of this very important undercover investigation.

Monday, 19 November 2007

No list is good

The first time I ever heard the word "fuck" was while watching Robocop. My parents had said I could watch it, despite it being an 18.

I remeber them coming in halfway through to turn it off. They must have thought it was some sort of cartoon, clearly it wasn't.

The were wise when it came to The Witches of Eastwick though. I was banned from watching that.

My mother thought the film was evil. It still didn't stop me even though, at the time I didn't understand any of it.

Farah Fawcett's tits were the first I'd ever seen on screen - in a really ropey movie called Extremeties. I remember when I saw them I just thought "god - she really should cover up."

The first willy I saw on TV was Nicholas Clay's in Lady Chatterley's Lover. He was washing in the garden and Lady Chatterley stumbled upon him.

I cannot describe the feeling when I saw him naked. This warm, exciting voltage surged through me. I think I must have been about 11 years old at the time.

The first time I wanked was by accident - isn't it always? I remember always having to toss-off with a condom because I figured that that's how it worked.

I used to buy packs of condoms at our local chemist, one for each wank. The chemist must have thought I was some nympho-teen-slag because I was there once a week.

That warm, exicting voltage again washed over me the first time I watched Rocky Horror. Rocky's blonde hair and muscles packed into those hotpants & gold fuck-me boots actually still turns me on.

The first woman I ever French-kissed was at a school disco. I never grabbed her boobs. Instead while Boyz II Men serenaded, I thought of shopping lists.

The first porno I ever watched was an American movie dubbed into German starring Ron Jeremy and Traci Lords. Why is that the first porno movie one watches is always a dodgy American one dubbed into German?

"Oooh, ooh mein herr - fich meh... fich meh... dis zoh goed ya... zoh goed!"

In my final year at school I bought my first gay porn movie. It was a sequence of guys having sex around a swimming pool. That warm, exciting voltage washed over me as one of the models pulled down the other's Speedo.

The one kneeling down took the other guy's willy in his mouth and I exploded right there. About 30 seconds into the scene.

It was a bit like my first time. At boarding school I began talking to a guy a year above me. The conversation led to us talking about "have you ever...?"

I figured he was leading onto something and he figured the same. I was 17 at the time.

We ended up walking, later that evening, to a secluded part of the rugby field. Down an embankment under a clump of trees.

I wasn't really into kissing but we did it nonetheless. He then reached down and felt my crotch. He then put his hands into my pants and we ended up pulling each other's down around our knees.

He knelt down and through his mouth, gave me the biggest warm surge of electricity, the likes of which I hadn't ever felt before.

I was so pent-up and excited I didn't last long. It was the most amazing feeling in the whole world.

I definitely wasn't making up shopping lists then.

Sunday, 18 November 2007

Tossing the ring

In theory I should be really fucked off about this but I am actually quite zen.

Basically the wedding between Rory and me is off. It's not going to happen.

I'm at gym this evening and I run (for 40-goddam minutes, count 'em biatch...) and then I do abs. At no point do I see Rory which is slightly disappointing but still...

I am sweaty and smelly and I need a shower.

So I strip off, wrap the towel around and head for the stalls. Can you see where this is about to go?

Yeah, I walk into the showers and suddenly I spot Rory who swings around.

In the cubicle opposite the other guy turns his back to me too but not before I see that he's standing erect.

So Rory wanks in the showers. He kinda half turns back to look and I just give a daggers look, tut and leave.

Do you know - yes, everyone wanks in the showers the gym but you do it discreetly. You don't do it on a Sunday evening when the gym is packed.

You don't do it when there are families with young kids running around.

And this is the killer - you don't wank off in the gym showers with the lecherous guy who hangs around them 24/7.

I'm quite surprised this guy hasn't been kicked out of the gym already because he's always hanging around the showers and the toilets. And this is who Rory gets his knob out for?!

The last I saw Rory was skipping out of the showers and I didn't see him get changed when I left.

I am not working tomorrow so I am going to make an effort to be at the gym and catch him. If I was really brave I'd wear a T-shirt that says "only desperate pervos wank in the showers..."

While walking home I thought "am I just jealous?"

Okay, maybe slightly - but then I would feel even worse if things started with me having a sleazy jerk-off in the gym with him.

Maybe I'm being a prude about this.

So for the moment the wedding's over and I didn't even get to say hullo to him.

Of course the upside to this is that he's mortally embarrassed which, by the laws of coincidence means I am going to bump into him again and again.

Skin is in

This post may be a little too strong / disgusting. If you think it is, mail me and I'll remove it. Though it is a story about me and helps to explain why I'm borderline barking.

Who wants to see something visually offensive?

Remember when I showed you my foot? Well, this is doubly hideous.

Actually, this is so gross that for the next few lines make sure that you're eating. Warm muesli's a good idea. Then it's definitely sure not to stay down! Haha...

So anyway one day I noticed this spot on my face. I thought it was a nick from shaving.

But within a few days it had gotten bigger and this clear stuff was seeping out of it. Everyone at work said it was a cold sore so I started to rubbing Zovirax / cold sore cream into it.

It didn't help because the sore just got bigger and bigger and bigger.

I went to the docs and they were like "ohmygod... that's not a cold sore - that's something much different...!"

So the doc gave me some antibiotics and off I went. Except they didn't help.

By now this infection had spread all up the left-hand side of my face and to some parts on the right-hand side.

Now comes the disgusting bit...

Nearly the whole side of my face, along my beardline, was covered in these red blotches and this massive crusty sore had developed around the side of my mouth.

It was so contagious that I was banned from going to work. It was so horrible because on the Tube people would move away from me when I got on.

Basically I had a very serious case of impetigo. The doc reckons I got it from the gym! Urgh...

In the end I spent about two weeks in solitary confinement. Firstly because the infection was really contagious and secondly because people couldn't stand to look at me.

It was one of the lowest points that my self-esteem has ever hit.

I had to wash my face three times a day, take masses of anti-biotics and rub something called fucidic acid into my face to get rid of it.

Every night I had to change the fucking bed sheets too which was the biggest pain in the ass.

And the worst part of it - and if you can bare to read this next bit - I'll buy you a drink.

Basically the virus lives under the scabs and after you've rubbed in the fucidic acid you have to wait until the scab goes all soggy and then try and scrape it off. You literally have to sit and pull the scabs off your face. Ohmygod, I'm about to throw up.

And before it gets any worse - here's a pic...

Basically all those blotches near my mouth were scabs I had to pick off and then all the way up my beard, the skin was lumpy.

Now though everything's fine and I'm okay to touch. However the whole episode's made me even more neurotic / mad.

I'm now obsessed about not touching my face. I get nervous when people come near it. I still wash it twice a day with Dettol soap and moisturise it and change my pillow cases twice a week.

It was the most disgusting thing in the whole word to have to look at in the mirror - and to think that it was living on my own face made it even worse. Friends avoided me.

A few months ago I met one of Katie's friends who also had once had impetigo. We've completely bonded over our infections. It was meeting a fellow survivor.

Saturday, 17 November 2007

A spark in the dark

We were trying to get this shot of something that was really difficult. I thought that maybe we needed to fiddle with the lighting; by the way, this was at work yesterday.

I have the camera and two people say "Bobby, I don't think that's very safe" but I shoot back that it is and it will look amazing!

Well, fair point to them really.

I suddenly felt this massive surge of power up my arm. It was like shaking hands with a bolt of lightning. It was the electric shock to end all fucken electric shocks.

It was a kick-ass bone-shaking, teeth ratting electric shock. The one that jangles your eyeballs in their sockets.

Of course everyone starts pissing themselves laughing as I let out this massive fucking yelp.

I don't know what my hand touched (obviously the bit my colleagues warned me not to get close too) but fuck me, it hurt.

Well, it did for a while but then having been laughed at for about 10 minutes and me eventually finding the funny to it, the oddest thing happened.

I felt absolutely fucken amazing. My mood was improved, I felt energised (!) and like I was on Cloud 9. I felt like I'd just necked ten Prozacs and been told I'd won the lottery.

I think Electroshock Therapy is well worth investigating now actually.

Listen, I am not for one minute saying that if you want to be whole and beautiful you should stick your finger into a plughole but er, maybe I am.

No, just kidding.

That's about the most exciting things that's happened in the last few days. I have been sat at home being unexhausted and now I'm bored.

Perhaps I shall venture into Central London to do some shopping though I dunno what to buy?

Oh, that reminds me, I have a birthday party in Clapham tonight (Clapham = about as far south from Central London as the moon is) which I'm kinda half-keen to go to.

In London there's nothing worse than being indecisive and bored. Maybe I should go out be bored and indecisive amongst the hundreds of Saturday shoppers.

Crowded Oxford CircusOxford Circus (above), the best place in London to stand around with nothing to do and piss as many people off at the same time.

Using a megaphone to talk about God makes everyone even happier. Always remember, be a winner, not a sinner!

Friday, 16 November 2007

Look into my eyes, Part 2

Everytime an e-mail has pinged into my inbox with a picture of your eyes, it's been like a little Christmas present fluttering into land.

This has been really enjoyable to do and I hope you've had fun looking into the eyes of people who you probably don't know and who you may never meet.

Here are four more pairs of beautiful eyes.

A nice line from the American philosopher Henry Thoreau; "The eyes are the jewels of the body."

This quote is from Cicero so it's a little pretentious but "the eyes like sentinel occupy the highest place in the body."

Then finally, this from Ralph Waldo Emerson whose quotes are perhaps a leedle kitsch but; "the eyes indicate the antiquity of the soul."

So there you have it. Four more pairs of your eyes.

You'll see your eyes and may recognise others - behind all of them is a person with a life, feelings and a soul. I don't know why I find that slightly amazing but I do.

All the people who've sent pictures seem to be people who read my bizarre ramblings on a near-daily basis, so that makes it even more special.

Thanks for taking the time to mail them in, I really appreciate it.

Thursday, 15 November 2007

Me, my sister and I

Yo, lads... (are there any ladies who read this?)

Anyway - this is all going to be a little jumbled up so please bear with me. Firstly, tomorrow we must do brown eyes.

Again, thank you for sending in your eyes, everytime another e-mail lands in my inbox it's like a piece of little sequined magic that drops into my life. Thank you, thank you.

Secondly, I was near Manchester today to do some work and we ended up working near a cemetery.

The light was amazing and I had my mobile phone with me so I took a few snaps.

I promise that these photos are taken with a mobile phone, a Nokia N73.

Death has always fascinated me. I've lost a number of close friends and family so it's been something that's always been in my life.

It is the great equaliser. In death we are all the same. You might have a Lamborghini, I may have a sixpack and he could be a million pounds in debt.

In death, however, we are all equal. Death is also the ultimate but it is also just the beginning.

Check this gravestone out, dedicated to a child who was just two days' old.

This got me thinking a little, so I thought I'd share...

Although there is only my sister and I, I know that I am a middle child. I had an older brother.

The first I knew about him was about the time that my grandmother started to go around the twist.

We went to visit her one day and she started asking my sister and I where our brother was. We thought she'd been on the gin.

But then she started talking about this boy, 'Bobby's older brother...'

My sister and I fished, my uncle wouldn't say anything and my parents nothing.

I decided to visit a psychic in Cape Town who "guessed" my sister's name. She "guessed" where I worked and what I did. She described my first boyfriend, she told me who I was currently smitten with and she asked me about my older brother.

"I don't have an older brother", I said.
"You do.. he's coming through. He's standing next to you and he says hullo."

I have asked my mum and dad about 'my brother' on numerous occasions, when they've been drunk and when they've been sober.

Everytime I get the same answer from both of them; "I / we don't know what you're talking about..."

In my grandmother's last days alive she would talk to my sister and I about "our brother Matthew".

The psychic also said my brother's name was Matthew. All she could tell was that this Matthew had passed on and would sometimes smile down at us.

When we were in junior school my sister and I entered a competition for siblings. It was a big, important race and one of the highlights of sports day. We ran our bloody hearts out and came third.

The certificate we got read "to the elder pupil and their sibling". I held onto it because I always liked to say that it showed how much the school valued me.

Why? Because the name on the certificate, of my sister's elder sibling, was printed "Matthew". Perhaps it was just a typo.

Wednesday, 14 November 2007

Reunited with Vivienne

Baby, it's so much fun in Bobbyland. Kinda. Well, not really.

Before gym I pop into the bookstore nearby to get a new notepad so I can write down what weights I do can how heavy they are.

And guess who's working at the check-out? Actually, don't try and guess - those games are really boring.

Working behind the desk is one of the guys from that party.

He recognises me and he says hello.

"Hi, how are you?", I say.
"I'm good thanks..."

I smile, he smiles and walk on my way.

What I don't say is; "oh wow, the last time I saw you, you had your face up another guy's bum and your willy in someone else's mouth."

So nothing really happens in the gym and Rory isn't there except in the showers is the guy who I've spotted at work.

Again, he's wanking off with some Asian guy who's in the stall opposite.

I spot the guy from work, he swings around and about 30 seconds later I see him skipping out to get changed.

Finally, do you wanna hear a heart-warming story? Okay, it's not going to make you puke but get this...

Friday before last - the drunk Friday - I lost my wallet on the way home.

Slightly / very pissed off started to cancel the cards and order replacements. I was really fond of the wallet - it was a black leather limited edition Vivienne Westwood. Yes, it's very gay, I know...

Well, nearly two weeks later, someone's handed it in to the Natwest Bank on Regents Street (I was never even near Regent's Street!?)

With the bank clerk on the phone, I went through what was in the wallet. All my cards, my Tesco card, Sainsbury's and Boots card AND a £10 note are all there!

The person who handed it in didn't leave a name or phone number or anything. Can you believe it!?

There really is some good in the world!

Monday, 12 November 2007

Look into my eyes, Part 1

My little appeal is going well and I wanna share some eyes. I would love to see yours - all you have to do mail a photo to bobby.vanquish AT gmail DOT com, it's completely anonymous.

You don't have to mail your face, just look into your mobile phone and crop the pic. It's amazing how much you can see in someone's eyes.

Behind each one of these pictures is a person with feelings, emotions, pains and issues. You wonder what their eyes have seen - maybe it was beautiful, maybe it was traumatic.

Some of them have seen the same things we all have. Perhaps some of those have only seen things we can imagine. Who knows?

Pope John XXIII once said; "I have looked into your eyes with my eyes. I have put my heart near your heart."

Here's another nice quote, the person who said it isn't clear; "My eyes are an ocean in which my dreams are reflected."

Of course there's the old Yiddish proverb: "The eyes are the mirror of the soul."

"An animal will always look for a person's intentions by looking them right in the eyes."

Isn't there something amazingly compelling about just looking into other people's eyes?

Maybe you recognise a pair of these eyes, maybe they're yours. Maybe they belong to someone who you look at just before you close your own at night.

Thank you to everyone who's mailed - there are more on the way. We'd love to see your eyes too. Mail them: bobby.vanquish AT gmail DOT com.

Sunday, 11 November 2007

Burn out

There is an upside to being officially burnt out...

Friends come and visit at regular intervals but when they get boring you can feign fatigue, start to fall asleep and then they leave.

Katie came around to cook lunch and used our wok. It hasn't been touched since we bought the thing two years ago.

Anyway, Katie told me this awful story about a guy who she knows in South Africa. In fact the story's actually about the guy's mum.

It's true and could only happen in South Africa, so get this; this guy's mum started having an affair with their gardener.

Incidentally, all rich white people in South Africa have guys to look after the garden - repellent South Africans call them garden-boys even though they're usually in their 40s.

One of our gardeners - my parents' garden is enormous and there was always a minimum of two guys at any one time - anyway, one of them was called Franz Holland which proved endlessly amusing when my parents were pissed.

But I digress.

So this guy's mum started to have an affair with the gardener. Anyway, it turns out that he had AIDS and within a year the mother had died from it.

Except, no-one figured it out until the autopsy.

Prior to the death though, the husband carried on, the wife never said anything, they shagged and now the husband has AIDS too.

The gardener is still alive and was working for the husband after his wife died.

The husand only found out after the gardener had to leave his employment to tend to his sick wife who had AIDS. One of the women in the wife's bookclub told the husband just who his wife had been sleeping with!

Try writing that into the script of Desperate Housewives.

One in nine South Africans has AIDS. It is the scourge of the country. The sorry thing is, that this type of story is far too common.

Anyway - onto something far more trivial. You wanna know why I'm exhausted? Check this out...

The chorus goes something like (from left to right):

8 Gakic in the morning with a Berocca. Then at the gym 6 Leukic.
After work-out we have Adidas soap for body, Molton Brown for body scrub and then wash face with Dettol soap.
Face is then bathed in Boots No. 7 moisturiser, E45 goes on the body
Nivea for Women for the underarm (because it doesn't smell)
Disinfectant sprayed into shoes with athletes foot powder
An hour before eating, 3 thermogenic tablets
Then a milk thistle triplet to keep the liver going
Silica 500 keeps bones and joints intact
Fish liver oil and Centrum provide extra nutrients
At bedtime we brush with enamel enhancer because my teeth are whitened and then we swill with Total Care Bionic Power Anti-Fungal Listerine.
Finally we powder the sleeping socks with Mycil to kill any trace of germs before we start with the Gakic again...

And so begins another day in Bobbyland.

White picket fences

I have to meet friends for lunch at The Box in Covent Garden; 2 straight girls and two gay boys (not a couple). They're all mates from back in South Africa so it's always nice to catch up.

God knows who chose The Box but it's the first I've been there in about three years and (as if by magic) the service is pretty rubbish.

Aside: There are three requirements which would qualify you, should you wish to work at The Box. First, you shouldn't have a clue what food / a menu is. Secondly you should have big muscles and a skin condition and third is not a necessity at all but English should not be your first language. In fact the less English you can speak, the better.

All our food was wrong and the drinks were mixed up. I had the tuna salad (which they did get right) and was so scared our waitor / Pedro / Agador Spartacus was going to spit in it, I just smiled from ear to ear continuously.

Anyway, this isn't supposed to be a restaurant review... so we start talking about a couple who we all know from Cape Town.

They've been in a relationship for like 10 years and I have to say that they were quite smug about it.

They really projected this image of happily "married" domesticated bliss. It was a bit nauseating but there.

However.

It turns out that one-half of the couple was actually playing away quite regularly at the local sauna.

One evening things got a little heavy and there wasn't a condom involved and then it turns out that the other-half was playing away too (at the same sauna, and they never bumped into each other)!

There were AIDS tests which turned out to be negative, thankfully, and now they've gone being from this smug luvvie-duvvie pair to basically being an open relationship and trawling Gaydar as and when necessary.

What sort of a relationship is that?

The obvious reaction is the question; "can a gay relationship ever be 'white picket fences?'"

Before this gets too depressing though - here's a thought.

Graham, who's in our group was in a three / four / ?-year relationship that broke down and he said the best thing I have heard in a long time.

His hypothesis is this:

If you're in a relationship with another guy you have to keep it new and fresh and sexy and fun. If you can, at the very least you should never even share a bed let alone live together.

Graham reckons that as soon as you start doing everything together i.e. living / sleeping / eating / socialising everything will start to go downhill because basically you'll just morph into your boyfriend.

Ultimately this means that one of the most important aspects (sex) will become boring because it would just be like having sex with yourself in which case you might as well wank.

That's when the temptation of Gaydar / saunas / open relationships creeps in.

I think that's a really good hypothesis. I like it and am going to apply it, hopefully in the not-too-distant future.

Moving on.

Did you know that I have a very good friend in California? Yep, he's the hottest thing in the world and nearly every day he sends me an e-mail.

I really like him because he's so generous and I know that he sends these e-mails to me and me only.

I know that when he writes them he has me in mind and that he sends them with love and light.

What do you think of my friend? He's a fitness instructor called David Rich. You like?

Because Dave (or "Coochy-coo", as I like to call him) sends me his personalised work-out tips everyday, I bet he reads my blog and hangs onto each word I write.

So come on, Dave - be a sweety and send us a picture of your eyes for the compilation I'm making.

And David's not the only one - you have to send me a picture of your eyes too... here's a guide to the why and the wherefore.

bobby.vanquish AT gmail DOT com.

Saturday, 10 November 2007

Windows

Do you remember about two months ago we shared pictures of our legs? Can I do something like that again, except this time a lot more personal...?

You know what they say about eyes? Well, look into my eyes and I want to look into yours. Please can you send me a photo of yours?

Bobby's sad eyes...It's incredible how much you can tell about someone by their eyes. Those above are 'sad' (or more like droppy depressed "I feel like shit" eyes). These are smiling eyes...

Bobby's happy eyes...You don't have to send a photo of your face, just crop your eyes out and send them to me, yeah?

You can send hollow eyes or smiling eyes or just vacant eyes. It can't be worse than mine - look at the ex-zit on the top of my left eye!

Anyway, my e-mail address is bobby.vanquish AT gmail DOT com. You can also load them into Photobucket if you like and mail me the link - whichever, look into your mobile, snap a photo of your eyes and mail me.

If you want to be identified lemme know, otherwise it's totally anonymous.

bobby.vanquish AT gmail DOT com - please get looking!

Friday, 9 November 2007

Sleep is good!?

Okay, here's what's happening.

Firstly, I'm really grateful for all the comments you've left and I am to blame for not responding.

The second issue is slightly more complicated.

I have a pretty intense job and it means long hours. On Thursday morning I had an odd turn because I suddenly lost all the feeling in my fingers.

It spread around my body and - it's not anything serious - but basically I am or I have been suffering from exhaustion / "Stress Exhaustion" (?)

No, it's not the guy in the gym that led to it nor is it my goal for a sixpack which is to blame.

Basically, I've been working too hard and my body's given up.

My body was a fortress and I always thought that it was invincible but it's given in. I feel old and horrible and irritated.

I've been lying in bed / doing fuck-all and can't basically do anything "stressful".

It's weird because I feel like I really want to sleep but when I turn out the light my heart leaps into overdrive and I start stressing about the morning.

Apparently I need to relax and breathe and I need some rest.

Tonight I had McDonald's and it tasted like shit. Friends think that force-feeding me McDonald's with help me relax. I really hate this.

So if I'm a little on the quiet side it's because I'm sleeping or pretending to relax. I hate this shit and I want normality.

Wednesday, 7 November 2007

Friend requests

So I get to the gym, roughly at the same time. Working out are roughly the same people as the night before and the same tunes are playing just as they were 24 horus previously.

I'm excited because I am ready to say hello to Rory* whatever happens.

Leaving the changeroom I scan the benches, he's not there. I get to the gym floor and I don't spot him. To the weights section and he's not there either.

I decide to run - this is the time he's usually at the gym and I'm ready with a smile. I run and run... 20 minutes pass and no Rory.

I've psyched myself up for this and he's not there. I run some more and some more but I'm doing it in vain. Rory's not coming and I'm not going to get my hello.

I realise it's getting silly to I stop running and try to do shoulders but it's all a bit hollow.

I'm wasting my time and I don't really want to be there so I shower and leave. Maybe another time, maybe tomorrow.

Whatever.

Anyway, listen - if you're over 30 can I ask you something? Was being 29 like the worst year of your life?

Not only am I having "where's my fucking future husband" crises but I am also having a "ohmygod, I'm nearly 30" crises too.

But do you know, I am actually looking forward to turning 30.

I got a message via Bookface today. I didn't have a clue who the guy was who tried to request to be my "friend" so I sent him a little not asking him, diplomatically, who the fuck was he?

"We met up at the Pick 'n Pay (supermarket in South Africa) in Rondebosch (place in South Africa) and went back to your place for..."

Ohmygod, I so don't remember that.

However, after a little e-mail to and fro-ing some vague recollections surface. It was in 1998, much of which I spent drunk. I was 20 years old the time.

(By the way, the guy on Bookface doesn't look like the back end of a bus, thank god...)

Anyway, that's why I can't wait to turn 30. I cannot wait to put all that shit behind me.

I spent a lot of my 20s drunk, fat, depressed, upset, struggling, sad and perhaps lonely because I never shared anything with anyone. Instead I drank Pinot Noir and ate McDonalds.

When I was depressed I would sometimes use sex to try and raise my self esteem. Being 110kgs (243lbs) I ended up "interacting" with people who I wouldn't have usually. It made me feel cheap and disgusted with myself.

So I ate more and drank more to numb the pain.

Sometimes I get a little sad to think that I pissed all those years away. Your youth should be a time of discovery and excitement. It wasn't for me.

I know there are more "we met in the supermarket" stories.

I really need to try and remember those years because I need to put all those tales into little bubbles and send them off into the Universe never to return. I need to do all of this before I turn 30 next June.

There is a lot I have to share with you.

Tuesday, 6 November 2007

One more chance

Oh, I'm trying to be upbeat I really am, despite everything being pulled in the opposite direction.

For example
1/ I've just learned today that I'm going to be working on the following days: 25, 26, 27 and 28th December.

2/ I've lost my wallet somewhere.
(If I knew where it was I wouldn't have lost it, incase you were about to ask "when did you have it last?" as my mother would...)

3/ The fit, beautiful guy at the gym (who I've named Rory), the one who I nearly gave the note to, was there again tonight and I just couldn't pluck up the courage to say anything to him. Fuck.

Number three in this list upsets me more than numbers one and two do combined.

We were both sat there on benches doing arms and I glanced at him and he glanced at me. And I just got such butterflies in my stomach I don't know why I couldn't just say "hey, mate".

I can't believe I bottled it for a second time. I know I say this every time but maybe it will be third time lucky.

The music's on and I nearly explode into laughter / burst into tears because he's so fit and sitting right next to me and this fucking anguished Tori Amos dance remix starts playing.

There's serious tension between us (both trying not to look at each other) and all I can hear is "this is not really happening...! you bet your life it is... this is not reee-lllee a-happppeninnggggg..... you bet your life it is... you. bet. your. life..."

I feel like that fucken singing nun who's standing next to the Captain and instead of saying to him "I wanna shag your brains out" all that comes out of her mouth is "high-on-the hill was lonely goat-herd yodel-ayyy yodel yoo!"

Maybe I should fashion some gym clothes out of a pair of old curtains and go skippity around the gym. It seemed to work for bloody Maria.

I am running out of chances. I have to just say hello and I don't know why I just cannot bring myself to do it.

It's easy to sit here now, with a clear mind and say 'the next time I promise I will...', but it's another thing completely when he's sat next to you and you open your mouth and your heart leaps into your throat.

Come on Bobby, just fucking do it, for God's sake!

Sunday, 4 November 2007

I love you

It's Sunday and I'm out doing some shopping and I go into John Lewis on Oxford Street and happen to be wondering through the toys / children's section. It's on the way to the tech / laptop / nerd department...

It's funny how your gay sensors work because I clapped eyes on him as he was kneeling down to re-arrange a display.

He had a tiny arse and these enormous lats. I was absolutely transfixed and nearly ended up walking backwards down the escalator because I couldn't take my eyes off him.

He was no more than 25 years old with massive shoulders and a light dusting of blonde hair over his arms.

And hello! Just look at those arms (the one in the black on the right)...

His arse was so perky you would run the risk of dislocating your hand by pinching it. He had this soft baby face and huge, heaving chest.

I wanted to just touch him and lick his neck and run my tongue over his massive biceps.

Seeing me standing around he wandered over and in this Eastern European growl asked me if I needed any help. My mouth went dry and I smiled.

"No thanks, I'm just looking..."

Saturday, 3 November 2007

Bad follow-through

I'm so fucken irritated I don't know whether to cry or kick the door. And a seriously vicious hangover isn't helping.

I'm at the gym and there's this really fit guy and we glance at each other constantly. About 3 months ago he walked past me and said "hey, mate" and he sounded American / Canadian.

I stupidly did what I always do which is looked the other way and gave a disinterested grunt in return.

Whenever I see him at the gym there is serious eye-catching going on like earlier today.

Back in the changeroom I think 'this is fucking silly' and I reach into my bag and realise that my book isn't there so I go to the front desk to get a piece of paper.

I come back into the changeroom and he is getting dressed nearby. I then realise that I don't have a pen either so I go back to the front desk to get a pen.

On the piece of paper I write "I have never done this, I promise, but if you're interested, I am too: 07738 XXX XXX".

I come back and he's doing his hair in the mirror and I'm standing near him and I have the note in my pocket but I just cannot bring myself to give it to him.

What happens if he says no? What happens if he isn't actually interested? How weird will it be if he says no and we still have to see each other in the gym?

Instead of handing him the paper I bottle it. I completely miss the opportunity and don't reach into my jacket.

He leaves and at a distance I follow him out. He turns left and I turn right. About ten paces down I glance back and see that he's glanced around too.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I'm really irritated with myself for not having plucked up the courage to give him the note.

I know he's interested because he's said hello. He's always glancing at me. I really want him. He has a sixpack and a very pinchable bum.

From now on I am going to live at the gym to try and bump into him. The next time I see him - whatever happens - I am going to hand him the slip of paper.

I just hope that he doesn't meet the man of his dreams tonight because that's me. Actually, maybe I should start with hello instead of a note.

I've made a space for his shoes under my bed. I am not going to let lose this one. It's a minor setback not a tragedy. Fuck.

Declaration



I am never drinking again.