King of the Castle

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

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

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

Anyway, something completely different...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what do I spot in the beer fridge?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's all.

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