Thank you

Tomorrow you will wake up and put on your clothes and go to work. Or maybe you'll take the day off.

At work, you'll do your job and then leave. You'll go to home perhaps stopping at the gym along the way.

At home you could watch some TV and then go to bed.

Perhaps at some point you will turn on your computer and surf the web. You may even read a few blogs.

At some point you might think "that Bobby was quite funny sometimes."

Or "that Bobby guy wrote very poignantly."

Or perhaps you might think to yourself, "I wonder whatever happened to that Bobby character. I wonder where he is?"

Sometimes I will wonder about the people who read the crap I wrote.

I was sometimes angry, others in a fabulous mood. Sometimes I was drunk.

I don't want this is turn into a farewell tour that would make Frank Sinatra blush so I'll keep it short.

When an actor has run out of script, the show must end.

When a car has run out of petrol it has to stop.

When someone who writes a blog runs out of things to say, he must stop.

So, to the order of play...

First we'll have the recap, then the thanks and finally the good-bye.

The recap.

Yeah, along the way I hope you've enjoyed the nonsense I wrote. I have had fun doing it, I really have.

But there comes a time when you find yourself sitting in front of a blank screen not knowing what to type next. I am happy, I am content.

In less than 2 weeks I will be 30. I am looking forward to it. My life is good. Let's be honest - that doesn't really make good blog, does it?

Before I went away for 7 days at the beginning of the month, I was in the same position as I am now. Wondering to myself why I do this?

I thought about stopping this blog then but I came back and decided to give it a second chance.

I don't know at which point my heart left it, but it has.

Of course it's a little sad at first but I hope you'll understand why I've decided to stop.

I want to end on a high, not finish because everyone drifted off into a malaise of indifference.

The thanks

Thank you for reading this. Thank you for making comments where you have done. Thank you for the e-mails - especially the ones where you introduced yourself to me for the first time. It was wonderful to meet know and you know that you were there.

Thank you for the advice.

Thank you for linking to this blog, if you did. Thank you for putting up with me writing posts and taking them down again. No, I'm not going to do it again with this one! :-)

There's nothing nicer than writing something that connects with someone and they respond. Thank you for responding.

Thank you for taking an interest in me and thank you for coming back again and again and again.

I really want to thank you.

To each and every one, thank you so very much for taking the time to say hello, or comment or e-mail and even hurl abuse. Every comment you have left, I have kept.

Every e-mail you've sent me I will keep, I promise. (Thank god for Google Mail!)

And in the years to come I will look back through them with very fond memories.

If there's two words I want to leave you with, it's thank you.

Good-bye

And so this is the bit when we come to the end.

I started around ten months ago and even back then I thought this Bobby Vanquish idea was a bit clumsy. It kinda morphed around a bit and now the idea has run its course. But I had a great time.

I know you're thinking this is a bolt out of the blue and in a way, it is.

Lingering good-byes become tedious.

I also didn't want to say "guys, I'm going to bring this blog to and end" and then spend a week bumping along the ocean bed wondering when to stop.

I'm sitting on my bedroom floor looking out of the window.

In a short time I am going to close the Mac, go to the kitchen and get a glass of water.

I have a life to live and you have one too.

So go now and live it. And whatever you do in life, do it with gusto and compassion and love and gratitude and without regret or anger or bitterness.

I am going to try and do the same thing too.

I wish you good health and prosperity. I wish that any or all of your issues find their resolution.

Above all I wish you happiness and love and good tanlines.

With love and light, always.

Bobby x

Memories

I am so hungover.

Maybe this time I have actually poisoned myself.

And here comes the chorus, all together now: "I am never drinking again!"

I went out for lunch at Joe Allen, it's my favourite place in London and I love it. Of course everytime I go, I end up drinking too much and when I got home I didn't stop.

And that's how I ended up with the worst of hangovers.

So listen - I really need your help with something.

When I was young, about 8 or 9 years old, my parents went to a dinner party and took my sister and I along.

While the adults were in the dining room eating, my sister and I were being looked after by the host's teenage daughter. Let's call her Christine.

My sister had fallen asleep on the sofa but I hadn't and I ended up watching the movie Christine had playing on video.

In the film there was a woman with curly blonde hair who's wearing blue clothes, I'm guessing they were denim. Denim jacket and jeans.

In one scene she is with another men in the back of a pick-up truck or a van of some sort. There are horizontal wooden bars along the sides of the truck because the sun is shining through.

I seem to remember they were lying in hay or straw.

During the scene, while in the hay, the man and her have quite rough sex, he rips her top off and bites at her breast.

Later in the film, while on a bus, they are both shot at, by police, as I seem to remember. They emerge from a door at the front of the bus covered in blood and with buckshot injuries.

I seem to remember this couple being on the run, perhaps.

I remember the film being quite contemporary, as in, I saw it and it must have been set around the late-80s.

The sex was quite graphic and the violence quite intense.

It was a Sunday night because I remember the next morning the nurse came to our school.

When I heard she was there and what would be required of us, I went and hid.

With the images of that film still in my mind, I was so petrified to take my clothes off and have her look in my pants or check my hair.

Our teacher found me in the toilets and I was taken by the arm to the nurse.

In the sick-room, this female matron was sat in a chair, behind a desk and told me to strip off.

I kept having flashes of the movie I had seen the night before and it was the most humiliating thing, to have to take off my clothes in front of this woman who just sat there and watched.

She looked in my mouth, checked my hair and poked around in my underpants.

All I could think of was of this woman in the film, having rough sex in the hay in the back of a truck with this guy who sucked her breasts.

I never told my parents about the film and I guess they were never told of me hiding to avoid seeing the school nurse.

So many other children were petrified of her too, I guess me bunking off wasn't an unusual occurrence.

And this is where I need your help.

If anyone knows of the film I am talking about, please could you let me know. I would be very very grateful.

I have gone over this story in my mind so many times. I have written it down and how it affected me. I think in some way I have moved on.

But the closure I need is to know what the film was. I need to find it and watch it again.

I have searched things like back+of+truck+hay+ sex+scene and of course it proves fruitless.

If the scenes I have described ring a bell, please let me know. Thanks.

In mah house

I am SO going to reget this in the morning.

Notg doing this but I am going to regret how I am going to feel.

I am piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssed.

I had a lunch that went on nad on and on and on and

I wanna say though, fucken hell, I am so embarrased that I am going to admit this.

The new song by Scooter assaults and offends just about every fibre in my body - "Jumping All Over The World". It's like the kind of song that would play you in a Siberian gulag as punishment.

It is so fucking ugly, ugly, ugly.

But I've been playing it to death. I love it. Oh god I'm embarrased.

AY YA YA doof doof doof!! Woop Woop! Jumping all, over. All over the woooorlld.

Somewhere out there

It would be an interesting exercise to ask people who write blogs why they do so.

Some do it because they have things they're keen to say, others do it because they're just desperate to be noticed.

I've asked myself many times, 'why do I do this?'

The answer is that I don't really know.

Actually, that's a lie. I do know why I do this.

I've had some shit in my life, largely crap that I have brought upon myself and I guess I write all of this nonsense in the hope that someone else, who's mired in the same shit that I was, will find some comfort to know that they can work their way out of their predicament, like I have.

Yes, it sounds completely self-righteous but then when has a noble ambition been a bad thing?

I mention this because of the complex sentence I wrote, before the line above.

About seven weeks ago I wrote that in 2003/4 I worked in a shitty office for a satellite broadcaster in West London. I said I cried in the toilets on a daily basis and that I hated every aspect of the job and as a result, I hated myself.

Someone in West London, who worked for exactly the same company, read what I wrote. They too were going through the same pain I was.

I told them that if they wanted to, they could jump. It was in their power to leave. They didn't have to suffer.

To quote from the Book of Esther, I wrote; "get ready to jump and don't ever look back."

This morning the following arrived:

Dearest Bobby,

I thought you might want some feedback on something….

You may remember a couple of months ago, I posted a comment which centered on the fact we shared some history. We had both worked for the same broadcaster, the one based at the end of Heathrow’s second runway.

And that whilst you had moved on… I seemed stuck in the nightmare that is Osterley. A nightmare that was driving me mad, I mean literally, driving me mad. Crazy. La La. Fucking homicidal.

Well, you kindly responded to that post, and I got to thinking… why the fuck am I putting up with this shit? How had I gotten myself to a point at which I tolerated the depths of my despair…not too mention a god-awful commute.

Why couldn’t I change the situation? After all it was only a job, right?

Well, a couple of weeks later, I saw a post advertised that sounded interesting, and I thought why not? Why not indeed?

Well, to cut a fairly long story, a little shorter, I sent off my CV … and what do ya know?
I have just delighted in handing in my resignation at _ _ _, so no more shuttle buses or crap coffee in shitty sachets for yours truly.

I start my new job, on July 1st, with a substantial wage hike and it’s based right across from Bush house on Gt Portland Street. Civilisation, here I fucking come. You better be ready.

I shall think of you... your kind words, and how a little encouragement, plus a tale of a drive that you once took past your old home, reminiscing about a life you once inhabited, a life that left you miserable… how all that, affected me, and my life. How it spurred me into action and onto a much brighter future. One full of potential.

How life changes, hey?

Cheers Bobby.

Ever grateful!

G

When I sit down and type this blog and ask myself why the hell I'm doing it, that is why.

Someone who I've never met, found what I wrote and decided to change their position.

I guess in a way I am flattered, mainly because someone took me seriously! More importantly though, I am honoured.

I am honoured to have, in some small way, helped someone else. Someone who I've never met.

'G', I hope your new job is everything you hoped for and I just hope that you have the best time ever. You deserve it.

I have never met you and you have never met me.

Maybe we've stood next to each other at the Tube station or perhaps we'll walk past each other on Regent Street.

I'll go to bed tonight thinking of you and maybe you'll think of me.

Somewhere out there is a stranger who helped another stranger. You helped me realise that the path I've trodden and the tears in the toilet weren't all in vain.

Thank you.

The Immaculate Collection

I'm sick and so I left work early and came home to lie in bed.

Well, I'm not that sick - I just feel completely exhausted. My body is craving sleep and fresh fruit.

While lying in bed this afternoon I started to contemplate my mortality.

I thought about what would happen if I fell asleep and didn't wake up?

Death scares me because I am always frightened I'm going to go before my time.

When your soul crosses into the light and you become aware that you've died, I don't want, at that moment, to be going "fuck, I wish I'd..."

And as your soul ascends you have to ask yourself some fundamental questions.

Did I bring happiness to anyone's life besides my own?
Did I treat everyone I came into contact with, with respect and dignity?
Was I unnecessarily nasty to people who didn't deserve it?

It's those type of questions you have to ask yourself constantly.

In this life, the only one I have, I don't want to find myself going "I really wish I'd..."
I don't want the most depressing day of my life to be when I wake up on the first day of my retirement.

I have thought about moving to the States, even to the point of sending out job applications etc. but then i thought 'shit, if I can't make it in London and I'm running away now, there's not much hope otherwise.'

Maybe when I hit 40, I'll have another crisis and move to California, where my sister is, and where I've always wanted to live.

In 1999 I made a list which had all the things I wanted to achieve in life. I am updating it to coincide with my 30th birthday.

The one in 1999 was to coincide with my 21st.

When I look at it now, I am grateful that there are ticks next to some of the things I've wanted to do.

It's entitled "Things To Do Before I Die" and underneath that, I've written; "if we have nothing to aspire to or want to achieve, then we don't deserve to be on this earth."

Some of the ambitions have been specific, others trivial but at some point they're things I've wanted to do or achieve in life.

So far there are ticks next to:

Enjoy at least one New Year's Eve - tick!
Meet Madonna - tick!
Chat up a famous porn star - tick!
Drink a bottle of Cristal Champagne - tick!
Work in an office - tick!
Max out a credit card - tick!
Have someone ask for my autograph - tick!
Work for _ _ _ _ _ _ - tick!
Work for the _ _ _ - tick!

In the next 12 months there are a few others on the list I should be able tick off.

You should make a list too, I've love to know what would be on it.

Music For The Jilted Generation

You have to save me from myself.

I had the curtains dry cleaned and I've been hanging them while listening to Boney M. Tell anyone and I'll kill you.

A CD of theirs was lurking in the rack and I thought I might as well rip it (?) onto the iPod. God knows why I have a fucken album of Boney M's Greatest Hits but I do.

Don't mock me... here goes:

"By the rivers of Babylon... where we sat down... eehee we wept when we remembered Zion..."

I hope I've got the bloody tune in your head now.

So speaking of swimming, yesterday Matt and I decided we would investigate the public pool near his hotel.

I've walked past it on the way to where he's staying and have wanted to know what it's like. Well, I actually suggested it because I'm intrigued but too scared to go on my own.

Firstly, to contextualise. This pool is right, slap, bang in the middle of London's West End. Imagine a public swimming pool one street behind Fifth Avenue in New York.

Secondly, what with me training to be an Olympic swimmer and Matt being able to swim, it's an activity we could both find productive.

So, being a facility that's run by Camden council (whose taxes rip me off every single month) and in a pretty urban area of Central London let's make a list of what it could potentially be like:

1/ Clean but smells of chemicals, like a school pool
2/ There will be at least one person using the shower to wash themselves and their clothes / various other belongings
3/ There will be elderly gay men who get free entrance only to hang around the changerooms
4/ There will be elderly women who get in for free, who have long grey hair and who paddle around and take up all the space.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

We tried the pool inside but it was warm, like wee, so we went outside and it was cold and odd. Basically you're in a pool and all around you is concrete; office blocks and houses.

We got the creeps so we left. And didn't swim.

There was a huge man in a tiny Speedo completely spread-eagled on a table that he was using as a sun lounger. The view was disgusting.

Anyway, the rest of the evening was far more productive / fun / amazing.

No, there was none of that.

We went to see Hairspray.

Ohmygod... ohmygod...ohmygod....

In the final number, where the entire cast is dancing, smiling and singing at the top of their lungs, I burst into tears.

I am such a big, stinking over-emotional homo when it comes to musicals.

It was fun and camp and pointless and just brilliant.

At the end I didn't leap out of my seat to my feet like other homos did but after a while I did stand up and clap. And then I cheered. And my eyes watered a little more.

You know, we all get down and depressed and hate ourselves but for two hours I escaped all of that and sat in a darkened theatre as a whole bunch of people in silly costumers, tried their fucken hardest to put a smile on my face.

They so did it.

I can't describe the feeling when something that you weren't expecting, just so completely lifts your soul.

Like that moment in ET when Elliot and ET are in the bicycle being chased by the cops and suddenly the bicycle just lifts into the sky and you just want to punch the air and cheer.

That's how I felt.

I wanted to give each of the cast a huge big hug and a kiss. It is brilliant and I loved it. I absolutely loved it.

This morning I downloaded the opening number, Good Morning Baltimore from the film soundtrack and skipped all the way to the Tube station listening to it.

Give me a chance cause
When I start to dance I'm a movie star!
Oh, Oh, Oh...
Something inside of me makes me move
When I hear that groove.

My mom tells me no
But my feet tell me go
It's like a drummer inside my heart.

Don't hold me back cause today all my dreams will come true.

And there's no need to say it, I will...

Gay, gay, gay, Bobby you are so fucking gay.

Invisible Touch

As you know, I'm totally retentive about certain things like:

1/ Hands must never touch toilet seat ever
2/ Shoes that have been worn outside are banned from my bedroom
3/ The only clothes ever allowed to touch any part of my bed are my pyjamas

I tell you this because it gives some insight into the cadenza I've having with my iPod, especially when iTunes decides it knows which artwork goes with which album.

It's my new obsession.

Every album has to have the correct artwork.

I will only rest properly at night once this has been achieved.

It's the digital equivalent of trying to fall sleep with the cupboards doors open. I can't do it.

For example, I nearly had a panic attack when I loaded the soundtrack to Little Shop of Horrors and this is the artwork iTunes downloaded...

WTF?!

Lets compare and contrast the Little Shop of Horrors with Snoop Dogg:

Three songs from 'Little Shop':
We'll Have Tomorrow
Somewhere That's Green
The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth

And three songs from 'Snoop Dogg':
Kapone's Derelickt Lair
Shake That Shit
My Dead Homie

I dunno...maybe iTunes sees a similarity where I don't.

Anyway, here's something from the I-don't-have-a-clue-who-this-person-is-but-because-we-go-to-the-same-gym-we-must-gossip-about-them file.

So last week I was intrigued to see this guy tanning to himself to toast.

He got into the can for five minutes, got out and went to shower then got back into the tanner for another five minutes.

The process must have repeated three times and I wondered why it was that he was so desperate to get a tan?

He looked young, had an above-average body but wasn't exceptional.

Well, fast-forward a few days and an explains reveals itself, courtesy of a London clubbing website...

Turns out he's a dancer at Beyond / Area.

We can all agree that he looks ridiculous given that his skin colour is practically orange.

And yeah, to answer that question... no, because I saw him in the Sainsbury's yesterday, holding hands with some woman who had very large boobs.

That's what reminded me of the story.

And then I snapped this picture...

I've heard about delays to the Jubilee Line but this is fucking ridiculous.

We Too Are One

Fuck.

Since Friday I've been eating like a fucking pig.

My limited experience in this field indicates that if you eat shitloads, it somehow makes your body think that it's not starving and then when you hit the gym again, you make better progress.

Like three steps forward and then one back.

Chocolate and then pasta and more chocolate and Red Bull and someone said that drinking Red Bull thins your bones so I have to stop that.

Oh, I'm going to stop beating around the bush. I did something really bad last night.

Matt was in London, he's from the old days in Cape Town, nearly ten years ago. Matt is still quite hot, indeed for a period of time Matt and I hung-out on a near regular basis.

So I met Matt for a drink or nine on Saturday night and then we got drunk and I said "oh let's, for old times' sake"... And he agreed that for old times' sake, we should.

"You're looking really good", "you too..."

So I made a few phonecalls, got some of this-n-that and then we went to Matt's hotel room in Covent Garden.

There, we emptied the minibar and Matt - ... Fuck-it, you don't know me so I have no shame, but Matt decided (for old times' sake again) that it would be fun to short a pine of yoke off my stick.

(Rhyming words, work them out...)

And then I said that I would short a pine but he had to mow me while I did it. (Yes, again for old times' sake...)

I also insisted that it was important that we did some of our interacting in front of the huge mirror in the bathroom. (Yes, we'd done that previously)

Okay, now I'm not talking about this anymore. It was fucking brilliant actually.

There's nothing like a substiantial interaction to set you up for the week ahead.

And doing it in a rather beautiful hotel room really brings out your inner slut.

The end.

Hounds of Love

We met on a train about two weeks ago.

I'm with colleagues, travelling back to London and sitting at the table next to us are four guys in suits.

Two of the girls in our group - tall, blonde and partially well-known if you watch TV in the UK - catches the attention of the guys at the next table.

The guys opposite are obviously interested. Or, at least three of them are.

So a bottle of wine appears and the journey from Crewe turns into a Virgin Trains Knowing-Me, Knowing You (ahaaa...).

I catch his eye a few times but I just think that he's being friendly or is slightly pissed.

About three bottles later.

The journey comes to an end and we get ready to disembark and we're standing up, gathering our stuff and the two girls have told the guys that they're married. This is true.

But then he hands me a card.

And I think "yeah, but you told me what you did... so why do I want this?"

I say thanks, we get off the train and I stumble into a cab. It's on the way home that I think 'shit, I have his number.' I geddit!

So I text him two days later and we decide to have a drink.

And then we go for supper on another occasion. And along the way (last weekend) there is some interaction and we go for dinner again and he texts me at work to say that he's thinking of me.

I like him. But I give "us" about two weeks, max.

He is 32, works in the City and lives in Canary Wharf. This basically means he lives in the office.

It will last longer than the next two weeks because:
1/ He is seriously fucken loaded which I didn't realise when I met him. I have always thought that being a housewife could be fun. Think of not working and the holidays and the presents all the other bits that go with that territory.

"I was given these jewels while on my back in Iraq. And these were when I was on my knees in Belize." etc.

It probably won't last longer than another two weeks because:
1/ We have absolutely nothing in common.

I am west London, he is east
I am gym, he is occassional jogging
I am Kate Bush, he is Kaizer Chiefs
I am Nike, he is Adidas
I am red, he is beer
I am city break, he is backpacking

Last weekend, when I found myself near him and we were both wearing less than usual. I have to admit there were no skipped heartbeats.

The problem is that he's really sweet and he's really lovely. And he smells nice and his shirts are pressed and hung-up fresh from the dry-cleaners.

And he's pretty successful, seems to like me and doesn't hold his knife like a pen.

His teeth are straight and white, he kisses well (there's nothing worse than someone who doesn't) and we both think that the way we met is pretty cool so somehow there's serendipity.

But.

Hang On Little Tomato

"Yes, I did it. I killed Yvette.

I hate her so much...... That... it... it... flamed - flames. Flames, on the side of my face, heaving... breath - , heaving breaths. Heaving breath... "

So anyway.

First, a random story from the gym, this time about a guy who's really irritating me.

He is rather overweight but he walks around like he's fucken Gods-gift.

He wafts from one machine to the next and doesn't really do anything, except get in the way.

But that's not what's irritating.

The thing that really gets me, like someone coughing relentlessly in the cinema, is that everyday he wears this oversized black T-shirt and on it, in huge white letters it says "Richard Ashcroft is a God."

I just want to walk up to him and ask "so what miracles has Richard Ashcroft performed?"

"And tell me, because I really want to know this - did he turn water into wine? And do you really believe that Richard is omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent. I really want to know this."

I dunno why it pisses me off but it does. It's like someone who has a face that just makes you go "argh!"

I'm pretty sure on his blog he speaks kindly of me too.

And just as his T-shirt irked me, so this truck amused me...

I presume that they're drain cleaners or something. The truck was parked outside White City station.

(Who thought "Kimmy - but you ARE effluent", when they saw the picture?)

I love the pink colouring and decorative font, like clearing crap from the drain is somehow a classy business.

I think they need a company motto, something like "proudly pumping your clogged shit, since 1983."

The exciting thing is that we've been moved around the building because our old offices are being redone. This means we're near one of the studios.

Tonight I went into one of the staff galleries for a viewing. Here's what I saw...

Above is the audience waiting for the host... they're all sat there excited and nervous. Who are the guests? Will he be funny?

If they'd read in the newspaper they'd know who was going to be on but then again, who reads the newspaper?

After Woss has come on and everyone has applauded, he sits down and makes some jokes and everyone laughs.

Ha ha - what a funny guy. Because it is all spontaneous and everyone loves Wossy.

And now it's time to get out our first guest and he's the Prime Minister from 'Little Britain' aka that dude from Buffy.

And from where I'm standing the light is in the way but I don't want to sit down because the carpet hasn't been cleaned since about 1972.

And then Andrew Marr appears and then it's time for Sarah Jessica Parker and I listen to her for a while but the phone goes and whoops I'm late for dinner.

So onto the Central Line to Holborn where I'm meeting a friend for dinner.

At Holborn station I get off and something under the seat catches my eye.

Look! It's a protein shake, exactly like the one I had for breakfast...

I think to myself "haha - what a small world" and "such a conincidence" but then it dawns on me that this is neither. It is an empty bottle under a seat at Holborn Tube Station.

It's actually not that interesting really.

Oh yeah and the other thing is that I've kinda started to see someone.

To someone I (don't) know

The funny thing about a blog is that anyone can read it.

Perhaps something you write strikes a chord with someone and they decide to examine their own feelings and start a blog too.

Tonight I found someone who, it seems, has been reading what I've written.

Back in February they started their own blog and I wanted to share some few lines from it...

"I am a male, white, 16 years of age. I live in a town called Stellenbosch, South Africa. I go to a prominent boys only school, and I despise it."

"Tonight, I truly feel like crying. Even though I developed a lot emotionally this weekend, in a way accepting that I am gay.

"I have stopped talking to my father. [W]e had a big fight where he put me in a room and started shouting at me, and saying bad things about my mother and I. When my mom came to fetch me (he now also lived in Cape Town) he started another fight and made me choose between him and her, I chose my mom."

"After writing that article, (the last one) I went, sat on my bed, and cried for ages and ages. I just couldn’t stop. It just all flowed out. And mom came and sat with me, and then after a while I stopped crying and I felt better. We decided that it is best if I don’t go to school tomorrow. So I shall be staying at home.
We watched Little Miss Sunshine, as it was on television."

"I don’t hate school because of all the work, I mean, o.k. I don’t like homework, but I know that it is beneficial to my future. It is due to the fact that I am so darn lonely, people find me too mature, so they avoid me; and the main reason is as I get bullied."

"I went on the bus for a while, and I hated it! I was still bullied, and one day, someone on the bus, took a plank and hit me through the face."


Dear C451,

I am Bobby, I guess I don't need to introduce myself to you. You've been reading a lot of the stuff I've written. Perhaps you saw that I was from Cape Town too.

My parents live outside Stellenbosch, it was the small town I partly grew up in. I know the school you go to, I have been there many times. I too went to a "prominent" all-boys boarding school. I also hated it.

If you look at the comments on my blog you will see that there are loads of other guys who come here too. Many of them too had a shitty time growing up. I know what it's like thinking "I'm gay and I am all alone in this..."

If you find yourself sat at the end of your bed crying, remember that I was sat there too. We were all sat there.

I can't make school easier and I can't make the bullies go away but I can tell you that you're not alone.

All the stuff that has beaten you and knocked you and hit you - don't allow it to get you down.

When someone is nasty to you, let your heart smile and tell yourself that you won't let them get to you. After a while they will walk away.

Things may be difficult at times and you may be upset and you may hate who you are but it is you.

There is nothing wrong with you. Don't be afraid of how you're feeling - that's just called growing up.

Of course, at times, it's not going to be easy. The road ahead is long and tough but if you want, the rewards are plenty and they are stunning.

That's until a boy breaks your heart for the first time, of course!

As you walk through, what seems to be a never-ending tunnel, remember that at the end there will be light. And there will be smiles and there will be all the happiness you hoped for.

But above all, remember that you are not alone. Somewhere out there is all of us - a bunch of guys (and the odd girl) who're with you in spirit and cheering you on, every step of your journey.

All the very best, from someone who's cried the same tears that you have. It will get better, I promise you.

With love, light and a smile.

Bobby x

From the other side

After showering in the gym this morning I was stood in the changeroom with a towel on.

I wanted to say to the guy stood near me; "dude - you can stand there and do your hair and wipe your brow with a tissue and fiddle with your hair (again) and stare at yourself in the mirror for as long as you want."

"It makes no difference no matter how long you stand there. I am NOT going to take the towel off"

So anyway.

While on my self-imposed exile / seclusion / holiday I got a letter from Jean.

Jean is her real name and she lives in Cape Town. She wrote because I had lent her a book and she wanted to return it.

Jean the most amazing woman I have ever met in my entire life.

I was given her number by a friend and went to see her before I left South Africa for London. I made the appointment and went to her house.

Once there, she took me into her consulting room, we sat down and she asked for a personal item of mine, like my watch.

After she started her tape machine recording, she held my watch, closed her eyes and began talking.

I still have the tape and on Thursday, after I got her letter, I listened to it again.

She starts off by saying "some of what I say won't make any sense now. But if you listen to it again in five years perhaps it will..."

"I see you living in a house in London - it looks quite posh. The area, I mean."

"I see cameras - about your job - don't worry about it though, They have one lined up for you. You won't be in your first job there for long though.

The first place you work in the UK has a glass building - on the front. I see trees there too."

"Then you move. I get a B... _ _ _, perhaps... Yes."

"You have a sibling. James... No - it's a girl. She isn't in South Africa. I see her in London but she won't be there for long. I get her in the south of France."

"I see a map on the wall behind you - and there are links with Britain, and the west coast of America."

So here are two pictures, the first is the borough in which I now live, the second is where I got my first job.

This the post suburb and have a look at the glass-fronted building...

At the time of the tape, my sister was in London but then moved to live in Antibes for two years.

She now lives in San Francisco on the West Coast.

The cassette goes on for an hour and she gives people's names, names of places etc. which now makes complete sense.

The cryptic bit is at the beginning of side B.

"Do you write? I just see you typing at a computer. Like a diary but it's on the computer."

She also talks about other things like family and friends who I've known but who've died.

I guess I should introduce you to one or two of them sometime.

?

So.

Is there anyone still there?

Keep rollin', rollin' rollin'...

I got stopped by the police which is a bit irritating.

Apparently it could be an offence to play your music very loudly when you're driving. I say it could be an offence because the cop didn't really elaborate on exactly which law I was breaking.

He just said, after pulling me over; "you're going to have to turn the music down, mate - you can't drive with it like that."

Of course I could be all hardcore and say that I said to him "yeah, whatever.." and then drove off and turned it up again, but that would be a fib.

The guy who first came to the car was not that hot but his mate who wandered over was actually quite fit. Cue a million police / porno-style thoughts. Truncheon, handcuffs, bla.

They didn't fine me but just told me to turn the music down. Rather nice of them, I have to say. Not nice of them to break up the disco in my car, but nice of them to not fine me.

Um. Do you know - that's the most exciting thing that's happened to me in a while.

Which brings me to the next point...

As you know, I have a really testy relationship with doing this.

Fundamentally, I just think that a blog, well... I wrote about it here, not two months after starting this thing.

Funnily enough, that was on a Monday too.

Anyway, so the point is that I want to excuse myself for a while.

Remember, after 'Mermaids' and the Shoop Shoop Song, Cher went away for a while and came back even better.

And after 'Look Who's Talking' John Travolta also went quiet until his massive comeback in 'Pulp Fiction'.

Think of it like a rugby match. At some point there has to be a half time, to take a break.

Add this blog to your Google Reader and when we make our return, you'll be the first to know.

Pretend that it's your friend who's gone on holiday and who doesn't have mobile phone access.

I don't really know what else to say because this isn't a good-bye.

So, I guess I'll see you soon.

Nothing in the air tonight

Last Thursday night I was in a car on the way home.

I was pre-occupied with the driver who was slightly interesting / attractive in a "you smell nice in a cheap suit" kind of way.

At some point during the drive home I'd been playing with my mobile phone because the next morning I realised that I'd left it in the car.

The cab company's office is in Wood Green which is somewhere in North East London and I don't know anything about that area.

Hence, I haven't been to collect it.

I have been without a mobile phone for more than a week and I can I tell you something? It's been bloody marvellous.

People who want to arrange things can e-mail me. There's a phone at home and I have my own number at work.

I don't receive text messages from people who expect a response within seconds. I don't have to look at a ringing phone and think "oh, I really don't want to talk to you..."

What's the point of a mobile phone anyway?

Sometimes it's convenient if you're running late and you want to tell the person who you're meeting but on the Tube there's no phone signal.

The only time in the last week that I've thought "shit, I wish I had my phone on me", was when I wanted to take a photo of something.

I think discarding technology is the new way of embracing it.

The tale wags the dog because someone goes 'you must have the latest mobile phone because it looks nice and you can have songs on it.'

And you use it as an alarm clock too and you can take photos and suddenly "you just can't live without it" but then you think, well I managed quite well in the past.

Of course I will go and collect the phone from the cab office but I dunno if I'm going to bother turning it on again.

Unless of course I want to snap a picture of something.

Talking talons

A little hang-over from my fat days means that I'm generally flattered by anyone who takes a shine to me.

I really do need to get over it because sometimes it gets me into tricky situations.

For instance, if I'm in a gay bar ("I wanna take you to a gay bar, a gay bar") I hear the following quite often from friends; "why the hell are you flirting with him!"

And I have to say that I wasn't flirting, I was just being friendly.

By which stage, the guy who I was chatting to thinks me and him are on the threshold of commitment rings, a chauffeured pink Rolls-Royce and two his & his Retrievers named Judy and Liza.

So for the rest of the evening all I hear is "Bobby was flirting with some really odd guy" while I repeat "no mate, thanks but can you take your hand off my crotch now."

For instance, in South Africa I was in a bar called The Loft (you have one go to guess in which part of the building it's located in...) and there was a guy who I thought looked lonely and upset so I went over and started talking to him.

I don't think he looked that shifty, he was very interested in London and said things like "I always wanted to live in the UK."

Okay, it was a little unusual when I pulled out a R200 note (the highest denomination) and he said "wow - I've always wanted to have R200 notes."

And it was even more odd when, shortly afterwards, he made a point of telling me that he was. going. to. the. toilet. now. which. are. just. over. there. where. that. door. is.

Cue Andrew who bounds over and says "what the fuck - Bobby, that's a fucken crack-head rentboy... can't you tell? He sleeps in a shelter. I can't believe he's in here because they always have to kick him out."

And I just thought he looked a bit lonely and wanted to chat to someone.

I tell you this because we have a new guy in the office.

He's definitely not my type but because I was friendly to him on the first day, everyone thinks I was flirting with him and therefore I want to sleep with him.

Even straights who love to tell you how all their friends are gay, still can't seem to budge that perception that all gay men shag each other. (Fair dos to them for thinking that actually...)

Anyway.

So I don't know where this story is going? Um. I can't really remember.

I think that's what I wanted to mention. About straight people thinking that all gays shag each other.

No, it was something else. Oh well, it will come to me. At four in the goddam morning.

I am very charitable when it comes to guys actually. I'll talk to anyone. Except guys who spit when they talk. Or guys who talk RIGHT IN YOUR FACE!

And how important is this to you... okay, so you've met a guy in a bar...

...


This bit of the post I've cut because I was making rather unfair generalisations about British men being bad in bed, hung up about sex while generally having long fingernails and all of them wanting to wear Margaret Thatcher's stockings.

So rude.

We're not rude on this blog. We love everyone. Except...

okay, sh!

...

And then I'm going to go to bed and fantastise about sleeping with all my gay friends. Because that's what we do.

Somewhere in Theatreland

An essential component of this post doesn't appear in Google Reader etc. It's best viewed via the site.

I think I've been listening to far too many musicals. Specifically, I think I've been listening to one particular musical more times than is healthy.

Ladies and Gentleman. Sit back, relax and enjoy the show...

Click play to start the orchestra and get the chorus going.
Then sing along...

Opening night...
It's opening night!

It's Bobby Vanquish's latest blog
Will it flop or will it go?

The latest post is nearly done
Another tale that's sure to stun
The story's up and it's on display...
So what do the readers say?!

He's done it again
He's done it again
Bobby Vanquish has done it again!

We can't believe it
You can't conceive it...

How'd he achieve it?
It's the worst blog in town!

We sat there reading
Eyes nearly bleeding
'Stop', we were pleading...

It's the worst blog in town!

Oh, we wanted to log off and hiss...

We've read shit...
But never like this!

Bobby Vanquish has done it again!

The stories rotten
The ideas crap
What he's done to blogging
America did to Iraq

We couldn't quit faster...
What a disaster!

We're left to languish
In a blog that's bloody anguish
That slimey, sleazy Bobby Vanquish!

What a cunt!

Hot gossip and other stuff

Fancy gossiping about someone you don't know?

Well his name his Jonathan and for a week he's sitting in the desks between me and Mighty Mouse.

Mighty Mouse is so-called because he's only about 5-foot. He also looks incredibly young which is why he hangs out at KuBar and Trash Palace.

Colleague - who I've had something with but we still get along well - has since had something with Mighty Mouse. Although I don't think Mighty Mouse knows.

Even though he is only 5-foot, Colleague says that Mighty Mouse is hung like a donkey. That's always the case when it comes to very small blokes, isn't it?

Colleague also said that Mighty Mouse fucks like a piston which I said was far too much information but the words still haunt me, everytime I speak to Mighty Mouse.

Anyway, so the gossip is about Jonathan.

I ask Mighty Mouse what he knows, he says nothing and I say 'ohmygod, listen to his!'

So Jonathan was once a complete gay. Like full-on, put-a-willy-in-your-mouth-and-play-Judy-Garland-to-me gay.

Except one day he announced that he was going to be straight. Just like that. It was astonishing. And now...

He's married!

He's the only person I've ever met who's inned themselves. But like completely inned themselves and walked down the aisle with someone in a dress who wasn't a bloke.

It fascinates me because he is a little weird too.

I look at him and I wonder if he still listens to Judy Garland and yearns after another man's ding-dong. I can't fathom that.

No, not the willy-wonka bit but the inning yourself.

Ohmygod, ohmygod - I just walked past his desk and he's looking at the Eurovision website.

Anyway - here's some gossip about someone you may know...

trautS arioM & tnemelC tS maP

Who'd have thought, apparently...!!

Finally - last night while I was losing my mojo at the gym I spotted a guy who I've seen a few times.

He, for me, is the canonical text of being gay. Like, how many times have you seen this transformation?

He started out quite plain, pale freckled skin and sandy-blonde hair.

He's quite thin and reedy but has managed to bulk up a little. He's now by no means a hulk but he looks okay.

In the old days he used to go dressed in a pair of shorts and a scruffy T-shirt.

And then he ditched the T-shirt and started to wear a white tank top with grey cargo pants.

And then a silver chain appeared around his ankle.

And then he grew a beard which he now keeps clipped.

And then he shaved his head.

And yesterday I noticed that he is in the process of getting a massive tattoo on his arm - one similar to this diagram which I have made as an illustration...

It's like sort of long leaves, all over his shoulder and across the back of his shoulder blade.

Some of the tattoo is lined without being coloured in.

He so totally fulfils the long-running perception of London gays who unshackle and throw themselves head-long into the gay scene.

One where QX magazine becomes their bible, Old Compton Street their runway and they end up spending every Sunday morning going from the club to the sauna.

We joke that they walk into the club looking like this...

And a few years later they come out looking like this...

Down memory lane

Before Bobby Vanquish there was just Bobby. Me.

Bobby used to write a blog which he started in May 2006. It was a diary of how he was getting on at the gym. Bobby worked real hard and transformed himself from being a fat heffer into something a little more presentable.

Some of you may recall that silly old blog, I remember it with fondness.

Before I deleted it I printed out the entire contents which runs to about 136 pages. I'd forgotten I'd done so and it was only when I was clearing out my room for the painter that I found all those pages, neatly stacked in a box.

Like a pile of a hundred memories so I thought I'd share a few...

This entry comes from 25th August 2006.

It's entitled Down On My Knees and it went something like this:

Please forgive for I have SO sinned.

I swore that I would never ever wank in the showers at the gym. I honestly said to myself that I would never do it. It's a public gym for god's sake. I would never wank in the gym.

Er, never say never.

So, I'm showering and I notice a large, muscular black man standing in the stall opposite.

I would say that he was middle 20s but whatever his age, he's built like a brick shithouse.

Big. Huge shoulders, big chest, fuck me. Hot.

He keeps getting the soap and washing his nether region and I think; "hmm... he's washed there about five times..."

He looks very straight so I think that there's no way that he's a woofter. I carry on and the next minute I see him glancing at me.

He turns to one side and I notice his willy has gone from flaccid to a semi.

Well, having seen that, I can only describe it as like having a bolt of lightning surge through my body.

In a slightly chilled shower stall I went from being warm under the weater to scorching. My penis immediately expands about five inches in as many seconds.

I cannot stop it.

I look again and he's towelling himself off. And oh my god. Oh My God. Oh. Fuck. Me. You sonovabitch.

I glance again and he's rubbing the towel over his crotch.

At this stage I am having difficulty taking my eyes off him. Imagine a rack of 6-ft black muscle, dripping wet and rubbing himself clean with a crisp white towel.

Suddenly he lets the towel fall away and there's he's stood - his cock pointing like a rock-hard banana, right up into the air.

I gulped and thought 'ohmyfuck'.

I was short of breath. Here was this great hulk of hot black muscle (with a very cute face) standing in front of me, smiling with a glint in his eye and as erect as the branch of an oak tree.

I immediately spin around with my back towards him and all but touch myself. I instantly exploded all over the shower stall.

I hadn't done that for a very long time. In fact, it's been ages since I've been so hot and charged that it takes just a few strokes and I've completely shot one off.

My left leg bent, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end and I squinted as I whacked it out. It must have nearly hit the ceiling.

Turning back around he's still stood there - towelling of his raging rock. I simply couldn't take it anymore.

My heart is thumping and I just didn't know what to do. So I smiled, fumbled and promptly left.

Leaving the changeroom after getting dressed I caught his eye on the way out and managed a nervous smile. He winked back.

The whole incident has given me wank ammunition for the next twenty years.

It's one small reason why I am now just going to die that little bit happier.

Of course I couldn't snap a photo but he looked something like this...

(This is like but NOT him...)

- - -

So that was the story, lil ol' Bobster being a complete pervo. Those were the days!

I had actually forgotten about him too, until I re-read this story. I don't see him at the gym anymore. I wonder what happened to him? God he was hot.

I remember that experience like it was yesterday, not 18 months ago.

Having mentioned him now I bet I see him three times in the next three days. That's just how it happens.

Disappointingly I will probably see him on the Tube, fully clothed. It would be far nicer to have him within milimetres of me.

I bet if you found yourself in the same position, you'd do the same thing too!

Season rendezvous

After The Hell on Thursday and your comments, I realised that one beer or one Mars bar ice cream is really not going to transform me from how I am now into a big, fat lumping heffer.

So I have just stuffed my face with this and it tasted like fucking heaven...

Of course today it's raining.

This is because yesterday in London it was fucking warm. A beautiful day. After the pleasure there is always the pain.

Anyway, because Saturday was so lovely we did the first Soho Square rendezvous of the season.

Soho Square around lunchtime in the sun.

Because it was the first meeting of the season and because I was with friends who were mostly straight (except for one lesbionika) I let myself have one beer.

After a few hours of chatting and reading the paper I start to feel guilty (about the beer) so I leave.

By that stage someone had gone to the Sainsbury's on Charing Cross Road and had come back with about 3 sixpacks of Corona so I have no doubt that the others stayed behind and got absolutely and completely twatted in the sun.

They're straight and that's what straight people and a lesbian do.

On the way home via the gym I get a message from Gareth. "What you up to tonight? New night at Area tonight. Heard it should be fun."

I let him down gently.

At the gym I spot Rory.

(If you can't be bothered to read the history, it is that Rory is a hot guy at the gym who I was going to marry but I stumbled upon him wanking in the showers once and it totally put me off him. But that's in the past now.)

So I'm walking to the water cooler and I see Rory walking towards me. I catch his eye and he mine. And as we walk past each other we both go "hiya" and brush against each other.

It's so hot. There's a moment and chemisty. I am so going to get him.

I have done and said this over and over but the next time I see him, I am going to say something more.

There's a serious history here, so much so that at one point I was debating whether to slip Rory a note with my mobile number on it.

That was November last year. So much has not changed!

Come on Bobby - you have nothing to lose. Just do it. Thanks.

Anyway, on the way to Tottenham Court Road tube station from Soho Square I spot the following poster on an Evening Standard newspaper stall...

Now I don't like to talk politics but...

Just incase you were unsure, on May 1 Londoners have to vote for a new mayor. The three above are the main candidates.

Seeing that poster made me think.

So I did some remodelling...

It's lame and blunt, I know.

Okay, this is the last time we do politics on this blog. I'm going to gym.

- - -
Hmm... actually before I go. I think this post is lame. It's lame lame duck, lame Georgey Bush-o-lame, lame like a house on rubber stilts.

Sometimes when it comes to a blog, you just can't get it up! This is one of those times.

So let's resort to an old favourite - the quiz.

Here's the hypothesis:
"The guy on the left is straight and while on the guy on the right is gay, he is definitely not interested in you. But the future of the world depends on you screwing one of them. So, who'd you do?"

Sarah get your gun

I don't talk about work much because it's work and work is boring. But sometimes it's a little amusing so I'll talk about it.

Not that you may be interested but I'll speak nonetheless...

So I knew today was going to be a long day.

The driver was there to pick me up this morning at 5.15 and I got dropped off at 23.07. That's a 17-hour day.

When I know I'm going to have an ultra long day I make sure that everyone else is aware of it too.

To do this I dress as sloppily as possible.

Today I wore an old pair of trainers, torn jeans and a few layers of top, all of which hung out with the outermost layer being something I pulled out of the laundry basket. To complete the picture, I didn't shave either.

At least I believe in everyone's mind they think "he must be having a rough day therefore I shouldn't talk to him", so no-one does and I get things done faster.

Anyway, what I wanted to tell you about is terrible. I mean, truly awful.

Our office is large and spread out so we have a system to message each other via our computers, a bit like MSN Messenger. You type your message and then zap it off to the person you want to send it to.

This is to stop people shouting at each other across the room and it saves time, so you don't have to walk across to someone to ask them a simple but important question.

Like maybe you'd send "do you have that tape? can you bring please" or
"please look at link in script at 23'05 - think needs changing" or
"walking up now on your left - HOT!"

Yes, of course it gets used for gossip and slagging off. Like, "look what Janet's wearing - ohmygod..."

Well last night, after a very long day, we were just coming to the end of things and one of the girls was busy, busy, busy. But she's also useless, useless, useless.

If you offer to help, you just end up doing it anyway.

This all sounds mad but when you think that part of what I do goes live on telly, you can understand.

So said girl is generally panicking and making a lot of fuss and noise over not much.

I type a message to my mate Jones (I must tell you about Jones actually...), sitting between me and Sarah.

"Shame... someone needs to do the decent thing and take poor Sarah to a back office and hand her the gun. Jeez..."

I am about to send the message and because I'm not tired or thinking I type in Sarah's name and push send. Subconsciously, it's so easy to do...

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfkjafdkjfakhjfda. It's not like e-mail so you can't recall it. It pops up instantaneously.

Ohmygod. I can see her open it and I'm just going FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK....

The really awful thing is she didn't react. But she did quieten down. I suspect she'll complain about me. But fuckit - she's a load of hot air and anyway and she's not very good at all and I'm sure my boss will secretly agree with it.

Fuck. Fuck fuck. If she confronts me I'll just say it was a joke and if I didn't want her to see it, why would I send it to her?! Even though, she too has probably done the same thing with this stupid messenger.

Whoops! Fuck.

Finally...

Here are three video grabs of me from Thursday.

They're part of a programme which goes out this weekend on TV. If you spot me on the box then you win the prize. But I dunno what the prize is yet.

Don't usually smile this much but that's what happens when the sun comes out.

Dahling - that's enough of filming me...

The Hell

I'm in The Hell.

The Hell is the place where I am at my weakest. I am the old me. I am the lame, the loser and the lonely.

It is The Hell, horrible, fucking hell, hell, hell...

So what happens is, today I did some travelling.

And I got back to London at around 7pm-ish.

I was supposed to meet friends but I texted to say I wasn't coming because I had a shit / busy day. This was to get out of drinking.

But it's like a seed has been planted in my brain. So I have to have drink.

Or drugs. Or a club. Or any fucking thing to fill the promise of an addiction.

And I say to myself, 'Bobby, go home' but my brain says "feed me booze and drugs and liquor and give me sex in a sauna and satisfy me with all those other addictions."

But my mind says "Bobby, go home. You're going out next Bank Holiday Sunday - you're on track... don't binge drink and eat.

You know you hate saunas and drinking and _ _ _ _ is not even a consideration."

And then a McDonalds outlet appears I stand there and I look at the menu and the food and the customers and I feel sick and I hate myself.

I want it so badly but I'll hate myself even more for eating it.

And I just wander around Central London, just hoping that somehow this hell will lift.

I go into the Whistlestop shop thinking "if I could have one beer, I would be satisfied", but my mind goes "one beer and all those sit-ups will be useless. You fat cunt."

And I hate myself, I really fucken hate myself.

I know that if I eat I'll get fat. If I drink, I'll get fat but still I wander around. Hopeless, but hoping that something will happen or snap me out this shit.

All this while my brain is going "drink, drink, beer - you want beer... like the good old days, you want beer."

And I have to say that that was a habit and I hate drinking and if I drink beer I will feel shit at the gym tomorrow.

And then I'll be out next Sunday and think "I would have pullled him (the hottest guy here), if only I had not had that beer. I wish I hadn't drank it.

But at the time my mind just goes, "Bobby, drink it - drink that beer. Drink away the pain - drink away the hurt. Drown it all in booze."

This is The Hell. I hate it. I hate it. It fucks me up and it still haunts me.

I hate me when The Hell takes over. It's fucking awful. It's like my brain just wants to go drink, drink, binge, binge, unhappy cry, cry.savohudfsgkl adfskl sdfakl asdfkl asdfgkl fsadg df;guh q34t

a23798PT QEOPWTUG EPWFGUI wsef

fuck this shit.

An offer you can't refuse

Yeah, so that's a bit irritating.

My housemate's decided to buy a house. Well, she decided to do this a few months ago but her mortgage has now been approved.

She's moving to Surbiton (yeah, 30 years old and moving to Surbiton a.k.a. the place where old people go to die...)

This means that I'm going to have to either:
a/ find a one-bedroomed flat to live in or
b/ find someone else to move in

At the moment I am veering towards option 'B'.

This is because the place I am in is probably one of the nicest houses in London. It is part carpeted and part wooden-floors in a posh area of North London which has cable, a dishwasher, a guest loo and a terrace with two vacuous gays who live below.

What more could you want?

So if you want to share with a batty gay (that's me) then send me an e-mail.

In our house we also have nice vases of flowers sometimes and the couch is very comfortable and we have flush lighting in the ceiling.

And there is a very swish bathroom and the it's a zhuzh area. Plus my gym is nearby and, hello! All human light can be found in our house.

In part I am quite excited by the prospect of finding someone else to live with (what if they're a total muffin) but on the other hand it's a bit of a pain.

Oh yeah, and our landlord is an artist so lends us his art. Currently there is a quarter of a million pound's worth of art in our house. Another plus.

We also have loads of DVDs and ... yadda yadda. I have completely sold it, I think. Please form an orderly queue.

And!

Did I mention that you get the one-in-a-lifetime chance to live with me?

During the week we can gym together and on Fridays we will go out to one of the myriad of great eaterys that litter the place. Over the weekend we can go cruising in the Audi or sit at home and watch DVDs. Or do more gym. Or go to the nearby mall and just hang.

This sounds like the perfect life to me.

I don't wank in front of the TV (in polite company), I don't wee in the basin but sometimes I do walk around in my underwear.

Here I have provided three pictures that will show you the complete picture of our house.

First, look at the bedroom cupboard handles.

Aren't they nice?

Then there are the other doors. And the carpet and the bannisters. Tidy and neat.

And then there is the dishwasher. And please note the homely dishcloths.

A tour of the dungeon is thrown in for those seriously wanting to have a look around.

Looking up

Who travelled on the Central Line this morning?

For those who didn't manage to, there were delays to the service. So no change there, then.

However, it was the announcement, as I sat on the platform on Bond Street station, that had me a little confused.

The woman on the PA blasted; "Ladies and Gentleman. There are minor delays to the Central Line due to a shortage of trains. Otherwise all other London Underground lines are operating with a good service."

Huh? A shortage of trains?! What, did some of them phone in sick this morning?

How can there be a shortage of trains? Like one or five of them wouldn't start. Or have they run out of petrol or taken the day off?

This confused me greatly.

Just to make sure things were okay amongst the Central Line trains, I snapped this picture of the one I got on, to work.

It looks fine to me...

Actually, a shortage of trains isn't my favourite announcement on the Tube. My best usually occurs on a weekend and goes something like this:

"Ladies and Gentleman. The Central Line is suspended between Ealing Broadway and Mile End. There is no service on the Northern Line, and the Waterloo and City line is closed for maintenance. There are also delays to the Jubilee, Bakerloo, Victoria, District, and Circle lines.
Otherwise there is a good service operating on all other London Underground lines."

Uh-huh... and which lines would those be then?

And who uses the Jubilee Line often? (Okay, after this there will be no more talk of the Tube...)

Anyway, have you heard the following announcement on the Jubilee Line, recorded by some very austere sounding man, it goes;

"Thank you. For travelling. On the Jubilee Line."

Er. Yep, actually I was thinking of using my helicopter or yacht to get into the office this morning, but then I thought, hell - why don't I just choose the Jubilee Line instead?

I love that it's always littered with free newspapers and that whiney sound it makes when it leaves the station really sustains me during my journey. Why would I not want to travel on the Jubilee Line?!

Okay, okay - one last thing about the Tube.

Now I'm not paranoid but.

I think the Secret Society of Architects is onto me after I was a little dismissive of Chris The Architect.

On the way home this evening - having decided to use the Jubilee Line instead of a canal boat - look who came and stood right next to me, wearing sunglasses...

Yes, someone with building plans in their hand. I think it's the Secret London Architect enforcer with his ricin-tipped umbrella.

Luckily I managed to get off just in time. Phew.

I am going to take my paranoid weirdness off to bed now actually I think.

Okay, just one more thing about the Tube.

Isn't the impending summer fantastic? Sorry Southern Hemispherers... the weather here in the Northern Hemisphere is getting luscious.

What it means is fit guys, fresh from the sportsfield travelling on the tube in their sports kit. I like it when they do that.

So that's enough of the Tube but I can we talk architecture for one last time? I promise not to be rude.

On the contrary, actually...

Don't you think that, from certain angles, the Centre Point building looks rather pleasing?

I took this on the way home this evening, as the sun was setting against the white marble of the building. Okay, I really am now going to bed.

To the young ones

Lunch with Architect (Chris) on Saturday got off to a bad start even before we met because he suggested Balans as a possible option.

I feel obliged to describe Balans on Old Compton Street because you may not have heard of it.

But as I start to type I just am overwhelmed by indifference about the place. It's just...bla.

Anyway, so I say no to that and we end up at Busaba Eathai instead.

Eathai is a noodle bar and it has shared dining tables which is great because no matter how bad the conversation gets, you can always gossip about the other munters, sorry, punters.

Architect Chris is sweet but I felt like I was having to work at it.

And the conversation never got above just a series of questions. You know when you're sitting with someone thinking "gad - what the hell can I talk about next?"

He also didn't have a comprehensive answer to the question "which building in the world do you wish you'd designed?"

I thought all architects would have their ultimate structure.

I also thought to myself, if he says 30 St Mary Axe then I'll whip my cock out and wave it in the woman's face sitting next to me.

"So which building in the world do you wish you'd designed?"

"Hmmm... I've never thought about that [wtf!]. I'd have to say it would probably be The Gherkin (30 St Mary Axe)."

I didn't even bother to start unzipping.

At the end I did the "that was nice', thanks" and avoided saying anything like "we should do it again sometime."

Yibbly-piddly... that's that one then.

While running in the gym earlier this evening I tried to think up like a list. A list to give young gays who're just starting out in the world. It would be "advice for young gays."

I had a few really good points but I've forgotten some of them. But here is what would be on my list;

Advice for young gays
Being a homo is fun, daunting, sexy and depressing. But always remember:

1/ Some boys are cunts and will break your heart. Fuck 'em regardless and move on. (Interpret that however you will...)
2/ Never advertise yourself on Gaydar as "a hungry hole" or "begging bottom-boy". It's just lame.
3/ Saunas are depressing and a waste of money. Always. There is no exception to this rule.
4/ Your colleagues don't care that you're gay. You don't need to constantly remind them that you are.
5/ Camp is fine. In small doses.
6/ There is more to life than QX magazine and Gaydar.
7/ If your shoes are dirty, your T-shirt has holes in it and you can't afford the drinks, it's not an issue. Unclean teeth are.
8/ Er,
9/ That's it.
10/ I can't think of any more.

Ride with me

So. Yesterday a date with Chris The Architect from Profile Bar. That's worth a few lines, I think. Tomorrow perhaps.

And then today...

It started on Thursday with a bizarre message on my mobile phone.

"Hey Robert, my name's Trey. My mother lives in the same street as your parents and that's how I got your number. I've just got back from Hollywood and am in London for a while. Would be nice to meet."

(This is a seriously dinkum / real / true story)

"Mum, what the fuck? Who is this Trey and why the hell is he on my phone?!"

"Oh, sorry - his mum came over and said that he didn't the have the right immigration papers and he was working in Los Angeles but has had to come back to London... he needed some help. He wants to work in TV so I gave his mum your number."

"Mum! I'm not the _ _ _ recruitment agent... He must sort himself out."

"Bobby, don't be mean. Poor thing, he's only 19..."

"Yes, whatever."

Ping!

"Hello, Trey - you called yesterday. Sorry, I was busy. So - do you want to meet? Let's say Sunday, 2pm outside the HMV on Bond Street."

Bobby arrives at 1.56pm on Sunday, outside the HMV on Bond Street. He calls Trey's number. Trey answers.

Bobby asks "are you in the one in the red and black top?"

Holy fuck.

What Bobby says: "hi, it's nice to meet you..."
What Bobby wants to say; "holy fuck, have you ever heard of All American Jocks? Ohmygod - I'll sell you to a gay porn company and take 10%. We'll make a goddam fortune off you."

Bobby and Trey go to St Christopher's place for tea. Bobby and Trey head to Bobby's office so that Bobby can help Trey with contacts.

At the office Bobby helps Trey with his CV. And he helps him send out a few prospective mail-drops.

Bobby says "no, don't worry - we're in White City but I'll drive you back to Canary Wharf."

Can I confess something?

There is nothing nicer than using your wheels to impress a hot guy so I insist we put the roof down. We drive back to Canary Wharf with the tunes as loud as possible.

I can't work Trey out (in mitigation, he's seriously into musicals...) but all the way back he had the biggest smile on his face. We've agreed to meet again (he insists).

Me no count chickens, eggs, hatch etc,

I cannot wait to see him again. In reality though I say, "yeah, we should hook up again sometime to see how you're getting on..."

Returning from Canary Wharf, I am travelling with the hood down.

Through the City, onto Clerkenwell Road, past Turnpills and up Gray's Inn Road, where I journey through King's Cross...

Maybe it's Les Rhythmes Digitales or maybe it's the warm weather. Whatever the reason, I am in the mood for a tune.

Life is sweet.

This video should be enjoyed with a handsome pair of headphones, turned up to the fucking maximum. Thanks.

Throwing it all away

or "Sing while you purge!"

As you know, I'm tidying up my room after the paint job and it's becoming more of an exercise in letting go.

10.42
Song playing: Aerial - Kate Bush (CD2, the final track...)

Copper bracelets used to be all the rage (they were, shut up!)

Anyway, I brought those two, above, from South Africa in 2003. After a few months, they snapped. I have kept the bits for all this time. Why the fuck?! They're in the bin...

10.55
Song playing: The Big Sky - Kate Bush (from Hounds of Love)

An old contact lens box. Why? Why do I have this crap? It's packed into the side pocket of a togbag so at some point I made the conscious effort to keep it. What a fucken loony-tune.

"Pause for the jet..."

And then - one evening, I'm guessing back at the end of 2003 I remember being out one evening drunk. To show off, I bought a bottle of Cristal champagne that I couldn't afford.

This is a piece of the wrapper.

Yes, it's binned and gone.

11.12
Song playing: Dark Road by Annie Lennox

At some point I went for an AIDS test. I think this happened once, on holiday in Cape Town but there isn't a date to verify this.

As you can see, at the time I was HIV negative. I have no reason to think that this has changed.

Infact I'm pretty sure this hasn't changed. I hope it hasn't.

Yes. Uncomfortable silence. No, I don't have AIDS. I'm not HIV positive. Let's move on shall we...? I don't think I'm going to throw this in the bin.

11.33
Song playing: King & Queen of America - Eurythmics

Look this this present. A drinking game based on noughts and crosses. My cousin gave it to me one Christmas.

The charity shop can have it. I've never used it. What a crap present actually. And that font is Comic Sans, a favourite hate of mine.

It's lucky it's not headed for the bin.

11.57
Song playing: Heart of Rock & Roll - Huey Lewis and the News

Holy shit... this is pre-2003 crap.

My old Mr Video card and Standard Bank debit card.

Why I have I hung onto them? I have absolutely no clue.

There are a few interesting things among my piles of rubbish.

I have kept newspapers from significant events because it's a great way to record history. Here are a few of the ones I have:

Thursday, March 20th 2003: The first missiles are fired as a "coalition of the willing" (don't make me laugh) launches the war in Iraq.

Two bits of news we thought we'd never see... Dubya gets a second term (did anyone really think that John Kerry was going to win?!)

And then, in a TV documentary Michael Jackson admits that he shares his bed with a young boy. Who saw that one coming?

Two massive days in the history of the United Kingdom, one after the other...

July 6th 2005: It is announced that London is to host the 2012 Summer Olympic Games. July 7th 2005: 52 people are killed and more than 700 injured in a four co-ordinated suicide bomb attacks on public transport.

Here's The Telegraph:

And The Guardian:

And finally, Anna Nicole dies and so does Il Papi.

So where were you when...?

First though, listen, my bedroom is a complete tip. I need to fix it. It looks totally inappropriate.

Blank. Blank. Blank.

It was a seminal moment when I looked into the mirror on New Year's Eve in 2004 and saw this huge, big, unhappy, lonely, desperate, pathetic 26-year-old looking back at me.

It's like I was standing on a stage filled with boxes, each marked with an issue that I had dragged along with me.

In the years since then I have slowly managed to kick each of those hideous boxes off the stage. They no longer clutter my life. Thank god.

It has been tough, of course, but all those issues have gone. Banished.

After writing yesterday, I had to really sit and think about why I had nothing to write.

It isn't this blog, it isn't that I have nothing to say, the problem is me.

Right now, in this moment I should be the happiest I have ever been.

There isn't a single issue in my life that haunts me any more. I've kicked them away, neutered them and killed them off.

So I'm left wondering "and now?"

My life feels like I've picked up a newspaper and read it cover to cover. And done the crossword and the Sudoku. It's in my hands but what the fuck is the point of it?

That's why I just feel nothing. Just bla. And emptiness.

I feel like I'm buckshot that's been fired against a wall for no reason. Or a tape that's been put into a machine, rewound half way and then stopped.

All the shit and the stuff that upset me and the stuff that made me depressed, my body, my drinking habits, my lack of money, my struggling in a job, my self esteem - it's all gone.

This is just how I wanted it. I just didn't think it would feel this plain.

This morning I woke up at around 9-ish. I ambled around for a bit.

On the way into work, the Central Line was up the spout so instead I wandered into the HMV and browsed around to find a CD I didn't have.

I strolled out empty-handed.

I got into the office, to a job I can do with my eyes shut.

After a few hours I walked to the M&S, went to the Post Office and walked the long way around Shepherd's Bush green (did you know they've demolished the whole of Shepherd's Bush station?)

Anyway, I am about to go for dinner and chat with friends and ... then go to bed and tomorrow go to gym in the morning and maybe stroll into work again and...

I'm meeting the guy from Profile on Saturday and... life couldn't be better and so it's left me utterly speechless.

I have nothing to say.

Without the issues and the problems and the shit I am totally lost. For the first time in my life it feels like I have no purpose.

Like the warrior who's slayed all his demons and won the battle, I'm now sitting going ... "and now?"

I can't describe the feeling of utter nothingness.

What do I want from life? What do I want to achieve? What the hell am I doing here?

The answer is that I don't know. I really don't have a clue. Help.