Sleep work gym sleep work gym blog sleep

Wednesday = 12 hour day
Thursday = 12 hour day
Tomorrow = 12 hour day (at least)

Schedule
7.00am: Wake-up (I am NOT a morning person.) Struggle to work sharing Tube with builders / people who stink of booze. Or both.
7.30am: Work, work, work, work, work, work, work.
8.00pm: Leave work and then gym
10.00pm: Home and then bed, repeat...

And in amongst all of this, all I want is a big, fat, juicy, luscious pizza.

However, that's going to happen on Monday which is now designated carbs day. I want the biggest fucken pizza that Pizza Express can do. I want the fucking motherload.

The only amusement in my life at the moment is the gym. That's how small things have become.

On that subject there are three developments...

My horny Hungarian porno-pup who is big, pumped and a "power bottom", as depicted:

Has started to bring a really hot friend with him.

What we know of the friend:

1. He is hot.
2. He is quite young
3. He dresses like a straight
4. He is hot
5. Er, that's it

I have to find out who this guy is, obviously.

Hungarian pornoboy has been doing legs and I cannot tell you how massive they are. What with him and his legs and his very fit mate, I am finding it difficult to concentrate.

Next bit of information - and this is going to sound very patronising but...

There's a rather overweight guy who I always see "working out" (stomping on the treadmill trying to peel off the pounds).

In fact, there are two rather overweight guys who've been working out, separately, for quite some time.

The one has been at the gym longer than the other but they both are quite large and obviously enjoy their Pizza Express pizzas more than once a week.

I had never quite guessed it but now it makes total sense.

Tonight in the Sainsbury's I saw both of them walking around together. Holding hands.

All together now: Aaaaah!

Rather ironically it seems that they have hooked up together thanks to the gym.

In a delicious twist it seems that the two guys who needed it the most but use it the least have found what the rest of us slaves are hoping to find there every night (i.e. a guy to steal our hearts and climb into our running shorts.)

Albeit a rather large pair of running shorts. (Sorry, unnecessary and bitchy comment - I'm just jealous...)

Anyway, the third thing about the gym is that...

I can't remember actually.

Listen, do you mind if I go to bed?

I need to get back that the monotony of routine as detailed at the beginning of this post. That means go to bed, work, gym, go to bed.

My eyelids are becoming heavy and I need to pack my gym bag and brush my

Moet, my friend

Oh yes, I flew off the wagon so spectacularly yesterday.

Like a comet blazing across the midnight sky, I then crashed and burned.

Yesterday it was 28 days since I stopped drinking so in my mind I'd decided that I could allow myself a massive blow-out.

28 days is how long addicts have to stay clean for or something, isn't it?

Anyway - so yesterday I met a friend for some lunch and had two bottles of cider.

(FYI to all Seth Efrikens: If you liked Savannah Cider did you know that you can now get it in Nandos?) Anyway...

After our lunch we went for a walk around the neighbourhood until he had to meet his other mates in Central London and I had to go to the bank.

In the stilted silence of the bank queue I realised I was actually a bit tipsy.

"Who the hell gives a fuck", I thought. "Let's go mental..."

Here is a timeline of what happens next:

17:00-ish: Finish at bank and on the way home buy a can of San Miguel.

17:10-ish: Arrive home having drunk the San Miguel en route.

17:45-ish: Decide to write yesterday's post about the Ikea. Now quite wobbly from the San Miguel I manage to push the right keys to get that story out.

18.10-ish: Push 'publish' on blog and think "job, well done..." Turn around and see bottle of Moet that is just begging to be drunk.

18.15-ish: Pop! Fizz, pour and drink...

And drink while listening to music and downloading songs and drink more and get more and more pissed.

19.20-ish: Realise that I have drank a whole bottle of champagne and am now absolutely shit-faced. I remember not being able to stand up properly.

Blank.

23.55: Wake up shortly before midnight in my clothes on my bedroom floor. My contact lenses are dry and stuck to my eyes and I am cold.

Feel like utter and complete crap.

Change into pyjamas and try to sleep but can't. Head feels like shit, cold and slightly sober I lie in bed tossing and turning.

1am, 2am, 3am, 4am... finally I think I must have nodded off at around 4.30am.

8.30am, Tuesday morning. Wake up still feeling like utter crap. Try and eat some breakfast but stomach just aches.

Go to work and while standing on an over-crowded Jubilee Line, swear to myself that I will never binge like that again.

Tonight get home and see the empty bottle of Moet on the lounge floor.

It still smells of champagne - that beautiful crisp, gold biscuit flavour.

I yearn for more bubbly but there isn't another bottle around to be opened. I can't be bothered to go to the shops to get one.

I would become an alcoholic you know, if I just weren't so bloody lazy sometimes.

Banging your bookshelf

Do you ever get that yearning for Ikea?

After I trashed my room on Monday this terrible urge developed.

While tidying up I realised that one of the corners was in desperate need of an Aneboda.

For the uninitiated an Aneboda is Ikea-code for a chest of drawers.

Now, this is this most important thing... I have nothing to put in these drawers, I have no need for more furniture - all I needed was to visit the Ikea and purchase forty pound's worth of shite.

The Ikea nearest me (Neasden Ikea) is apparently the busiest Ikea in the Northern Hemisphere (or something) and arriving on Saturday night at 9pm, I can understand why.

You park your car in this vast car park in North London on a Saturday night, walk into the store and it is heaving with DIY shoppers. You cannot move for the thousands of people, like a wave, who're stomping through the shop grabbing cheap candles and discount laundry baskets.

In warehouse aisle 44 I find my Aneboda and go to pay for it, however I am accosted by Ikea Food.

This is where they flog cheap Swedish imported food at bookcase prices...!?

Now, you probably don't know this but in South Africa, the Afrikaans word for shit / drippy brown stuff is "kak."

So this made me laff:

In South Africa this kinda translates into "drippy apple shit."

Finally I get home at around midnight with my drawers.

Now, anyone who's been to Ikea knows that when you've bought flatpack, it has to be assembled asap.

Thus, here we are at around half-past midnight on Sunday morning.

I hauled out the hammer and the twisty-turney thing to start assembling my purchase.

Just to let you know that the Aneboda requires some hammering. Actually, it requires a lot of hammering which wakes one of our neighbours up at around 1.30am.

Ding, dong!

"There's a terrible banging noise coming from your flat?"

Bobby (putting down the hammer to answer the door): Really? I can't hear anything. How odd... are you sure it isn't the people next door to us?

Neighbour: Hmm, maybe... oh well . Er, sorry to bother.

Bobby: Yes. I have to be up at 6am tomorrow morning and you've woken up me but that's okay. Bother me repeatedly, I can handle it.

Neighbour: I'm really sorry, I just thought that er... maybe... um, sorry to disturb you.

Bobby: I have to go back to bed, good-bye.

2am and after repeated smashing, hammering and knockabout, the drawers are completed.

I have nothing to put in them, so...

It's nearly 20 days until Cape Town and I am salivating. Warm weather, beaches and sand. That's all that matters now.

Sand in the toes, reading lazy books on the beach and the sand in your crack.

Yeah, I can deal with that.

Body spotting

It's now about three weeks until I go to Cape Town (or Keptun as the locals say) and of course I'm going to the gym like mad.

Now, you may or may not know of Chris Geary?

Well, he has recently been on holiday to Cape Town and has posted a huge amount of photos of his trip.

This is excellent because it gives me a rough guide of what I can expect as far as competition on the beach is concerned.

And I have to say that I am glad that it's not going to be as stiff (ahem) as I thought if this is anything to go by:

So let's assess this picture.

First, the guy on the right, I think has the best body only because of his partial sixpack. Second from the right's costume is pulled a little too high, second from left is a little scrawny and okay, black Speedo-man has nice biceps.

Yes, I need to do more bicep exercises I think.

(Isn't it fun gossiping about people we don't know?!)

Now this picture is a little more interesting to look at...

It's a bit difficult to make out the guys exactly but they are quite fit.

The disclaimer is that it was taken at a "body beautiful" competition. More specifically this body beautiful contest.

I think we can all agree that all the guys in this picture are pretty tight.

So what do we know? Well the guy on the far right is a Greek guy who's nickname is apparently "Costa La Vista." (Costas... hasta la vista... geddit?)

I know this because he knows a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.

The guy who's second from left (with the blonde hair and rather unsexy legs) won top prize and the last time I was in Cape Town I remember he was a gogo dancer.

Of all those guys I have to say that the hottest is the one with the tattoo on his pec. Agreed? Check those legs, bitches...

In this picture we see he has a pierced nipple and two tattoos. Doubly fierce, I think.

Therefore, this is going to be the guy who I am going to hunt down and eat when I get to Keptun. Holy fuck, I can't wait.

But do you want to know what's the most amusing thing about those pictures?

Well, have a look at this one below.

In it we see the two runner-up princes(?), the contest king and a rather trashed looking drag queen with socks and peanuts stuffed down her top.

And the funny thing?

The man in drag - who goes by the name Sheena - used to be my bloody hairdresser!

Small world, innit.

Single pint

It's just after 2am,

I got to work at around 7am this morning and worked, as I have done for the last three days, like a bitch.

At around 10-ish I sneaked out of the office and wandered into Soho to meet a friend for a drink. While there I also smoked two cigarettes.

The first sip of the beer I ordered was heaven, like syrup from the Gods. Cold, complex, honey and beautiful.

It was the first lager / boozer / alcoholic drink I'd had this year. 26 days is the longest I have ever gone, as an adult, without booze.

Tonight I finally succumbed.

But I finished the beer, realising I needed to get back to the office and stubbed out the cigarette.

On the way back I bought a huge bottle of water and drank the whole thing.

I thought that the alcohol I had was difficult to drink. After a while it tasted dark.

It gave me terrible wind and I burped and burped - to the point of it becoming embarrassing.

Suddenly I just felt so depressed (yet surely it should be the other way around?)

I didn't enjoy the beer like I used to.
In the old days, I would drink a beer as a way to pass the time between glasses of wine.
In my heyday I could easily polish off about four beers, a bottle of champagne and at least two bottles of wine and still be able to remember going to bed.

Tonight I had one beer and I felt weighed down, sluggish and sick.

Perhaps over the last month I completely zapped by alcohol appetite.

A month ago I could booze it up with the best of whoever was out there. Right now, I've had one and I feel terrible.

This is called growing up? Is this called becoming an adult?

Without being able to go out and drink myself into oblivion, what am I going to do?

I feel like a huge part of me has died and I don't know why I am mourning the loss of something that I know was bad for me.

In theory I should be pleased that my appetite for booze has gone. In reality it feels like something has vanished that's not coming back. I cannot, just cannot, work out why I think this a bad thing.

Don't soap me, rub me instead...

I don't mean this to sound like an advert but iTunes is great.

This is because you can find songs that you haven't heard in ages, download just the tune and not the entire album.

I have been furiously buying hordes of old 90s crap that reminds me of our school socials.

The Shuffle I use in the gym is packed with tasteless shite that's just...

Well, here are five examples of the aforementioned crud:

1/ Inner Circle - Sweat (a la la la long)
2/ Dr Alban - It's My Life
3/ Violent Femmes - Blister In The Sun
4/ 2 Unlimited - Let The Beat Control Your Body
5/ Urban Cookie Collective - The Key, The Secret

If you know any of these (hideous) tracks then we must be around the same age.

Actually, do you remember the follow-up track to that ridiculous song 'Short Dick Man'?

It went something like "they call you Mr Personality because you're so ugly!" Ad nauseum.

Anyway, while the music might be utter crap it's great that they stir memories.

I thought that I loved school but it really fucked me up.

It's taken more than ten years to get over it.

The problem was basically this...(bearing in mind that in South Africa the school year goes from January - December)

In the November before I left I was living in a boarding house with strict rules and a regimented living

By the next February I had a car, was living on my own in a flat and had a steady supply of cash, all sponsored by my parents.

It's no wonder I spun so spectacularly out of control.

The words "boarding school" immediately conjure up images of tacky 70s porn films with communal showers but it was nothing like that.

Yes, you got to see a lot of naked guys but think of it thus...

Imagine being in the gym showers and everyday, at the same time there are the same group of guys in the showers.

It's no different to sports change-rooms anywhere in the world.

Out of context it sounds like a sexy recipe but in reality; day-in, day-out it really isn't (or wasn't.)

There was never any "can I soap your back?"

It was the odd things that were sexy or erotic.

One of the images that sticks in my mind was one hot weekend at the swimming pool.

There were about four of us lying by the pool, all in our Speedos. I'm going to invent names to make it more simple; so there was me (Bobby), Simon, Jonathan and Guy.

We all played waterpolo but Simon and Guy were in the first team.

For first team waterpolo, imagine exactly this...

So we were tanning by the pool and Simon asked Guy to rub some lotion in his back.

They stand up and start to do it. Of course being straight neither of them blinks or raises an eyelid and Guy squirts the cream into his hand and massages it into Simon's very muscular back.

He rubs down into the small of his back, both of them stood there in their costumes.

Wanting to make sure that Simon doesn't get burnt Guy begins to rub the cream around Simon's waist with both hands on his hips.

He is slowly reaching around and rubbing the sides of his Simon's perfect sixpack which is shining with the oil under the sun.

At this point I nearly fucken explode and have to turn to lie on my stomach.

It must have been more than 11 years ago but I can see them rubbing each other up.

There was no naked or sex or gay love but it was one of the sexiest things I have or had ever seen.

Togo or not togo (toga, I mean...)

Thursday, 09.10 edit: Yes, as fleetmonkey pointed out, it's toga not togo. Of course. Duh! I don't know what the fuck a small Pacific Island has to be with anything but now the title makes no sense. Oh well... this is what I wrote before:

Remember on Monday I said that I was sure my housemate had picked up my keys but I didn't want to accuse her of anything?

Housemate to Bobby this morning:
"Ohmygod, I have something to tell you."

Bobby (knowing):
"Hand them over."

Housemate:
"I'm really, really sorry etc."

They were in one of her jacket pockets.

Anyway, we smile and move on and don't hold grudges or anything.

Besides, I'd been wanting to give my bedroom a good tidy-up for sometime and the wrecking I gave it on Monday morning did more good than harm.

You should see it now - it looks like something out of Wallpaper magazine. Everything square, polished and clean.

I would show you pictures but I can't be bothered to get out of the chair to go and take any.

And I'm listening to Pink Floyd which is doing wonders for my mood actually. (Wish You Were Here, since you ask.)

Now - all that aside.

I am having my 30th birthday in five months' time which is already giving me sleepless nights.

Turning 30 is already stressing me out and on top of that, I will be obliged to have a party which is upsetting me even more.

What the fuck does one do for one's 30th?

Since I hate "last minute" I have already been drawing up plans which include one or more of the following...

1/ Flying around the world as a present to myself. That way, I can spend my actual birthday somewhere over the international date line alone. This means having two birthdays, if you going the wrong way around and it also means I will be alone so able to contempt er, contemplate my life. I like this idea - especially because as you turn 30, you're dribbling into your Business Class champagne and catatonic at 30,000 ft.

2/ Holding a huge party in a suite at Claridges and inviting a whole load of fucked up friends, pumping the room full of Cristal, c*** and topless waiters, hoping the whole thing degenerates into a sordid group sex session that the police have to come and break up.

3/ Go to work as normal as pretend that nothing unusual is happening as I turn 30. Ignoring that at least a third of my life has already gone down the tube.

Of course, if it's option 2 then you're all invited. I was thinking that a toga theme would be appropriate to really kick start things (no knickers allowed).

30th birthdays aren't that bad, surely?

Because most of my friends are around my age, I am going to my first 30th of the year on Friday.

As I am not drinking alcohol, I am planning to spend the evening downing lemon cordial. That's suitably bitter.

Speaking of drinking... this weekend I am going to break the moritorium.

It's 23 days since I had anything to drink, the longest since I was around 17 years old. Goddamit I need a boozer so fucken badly.

And when I say I smiled at my housemate when she handed me back my keys, of course I did. But remember this...

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

Falling down

This morning I absolutely lost it.

Maybe it was because I still couldn't find my house keys.
Maybe it was because I was late in getting up and frustrated that I would have to spend the entire day arguing with stupid cnuts (First Great Western, Natwest, our HR department)
Maybe it was just because it was a Monday.

For whatever reason, I don't know, but something inside me just snapped.

I thought to myself for the hundredth time "where the fuck have I put these fucking keys...?"

And I just looked up at the ceiling and thought of the day I was about to have and I just screamed and grabbed the book case.

And I picked up my CD racks and just threw them across the room.

And then I smashed the laundry basket against the cupboard and kicked the bookshelf again.

You then look at the chaos you've created and then regret it and cry a little and then slam the door as hard as you can and leave.

I took these pictures this evening when I got home.

It wasn't anger I felt but crushing, acrid frustration.

Frustration that I heard on the radio that there were massive delays on the Tube. Frustrated that it was raining and that the weather was shit.

All the things that you have no control over that seem to gang up all at once and conspire to fuck your day up.

I don't know what came over me but fuck it.

The black bag's been out and I have been throwing a whole load of shit away instead of tidying it up.

Sometimes you have to smash things to fix them.

Like when you've just typed a 5,000 word e-mail and your computer crashes and you lose everything. In a flash you consider hurling the fucking thing across the room but then think of the consequences.

Sometimes you just have to give in to the feeling, let it go flying into the wall and watch the whole thing explode into twenty thousand pieces.

I know tomorrow's going to be a better day.

Over and over

I just sat and watched The Devil Wears Prada again.

Watching it is like hell because it just makes me want nice stuff.

It makes me want to go out and Visa my way up Bond Street and Amex the entire length of Piccadilly.

That's not what's bothering me though.

What's bothering me is the massive jar of Quality Streets behind me that I have been munching. I've had about 7 of the fucking things and I can feel my waist expanding.

I still haven't had a drop to drink since the last day of 2007.

Replacing alcohol with chocolate is not an option. This cannot happen.

Fuckwank - I have 30 days before I'm on the beach in Cape Town, parading amongst the gays.

Shit shit shit.

And do you know something else?

This is what I say to my housemate:

"Have you seen my keys, I'm sure I left them on the kitchen counter?"

However, this is what I want to say to her:

"You fucken idiot, you've picked up my keys again, what the fuck have you done with them? This is like the ga-zillionth time you've done it and I am sick-to-fucking-death of having to put up the charade of looking them when I know they're in your handbag or under your bed or whatever. Fucksake."

Instead I smile and carry on looking them while grinding my teeth.

Shit, I shouldn't grind my teeth.

Instead I think I'm going to drag my sorry big fat ass to bed.

Tomorrow I am starting on the anabolics and the thermogenics to try and lose the last of my spare tyre.

Do you know what I used to do in my Very Fat days? (Incidentally: I now consider to be in the Fat-ish days)

When I was very fat I used to hate the way I looked so much that I used to take a towel and wrap it around my stomach and then strap it in place with a belt. I would then wear this under my pyjamas when going to bed.

My theory was that if your stomach was sucked in while you sleep, somehow muscles would develop.

I would never be able to sleep properly because firstly the belt buckle would constantly wake me up and secondly because my stomach would start to cramp so badly.

Because my dad raced cars and motorbikes he would have kidney belts which I used to steal to wear under my clothes to keep my stomach in.

It's the most upsetting thing in the world to look into the mirror and be repulsed by what you see.

Fat. Wobbly, ugly, loose and saggy fat.

Fat that you can feel shake when you run. A layer of fat that coats your stomach and that you can feel on your lower back.

And then you look at yourself and you hate yourself so your brain tells you that eating will make things better.

Eating makes you feel worse so you drink but that makes you drunk so you start crying and decide to throw the whole lot up.

In the toilet there is wine and food and spit and tears. You go bed in the hope that in the morning you'll be thin.

But you wake up and you can feel your stomach, which hasn't gone away. So you reach for the toast and chocolate spread.

Modern living

I can understand why people give up their lives in the city and choose to spend the rest of their days on an exotic island, roaming the beach and working as an ice-cream salesperson.

At this moment I am fighting wars with:

NatWest Bank
My gym
First Great Western Trains (they fuck up their trains and to get a refund they make you walk to the North Pole to get the claim form)
Our HR department at work
Carphone Warehouse (no words can describe how shit these people are)

All of the above owe me money.

I really hate that they snatch money from your account - in all cases incorrectly - but to get the money back you have to skin yourself alive, crawl over broken glass and beg.

My contempt for those companies and the people that work in them knows no bounds.

This is why I have been slighly quiet over the last few days.

I just have no energy and no will power.

There are times when I seriously think that violence is the only answer - this is one of those time.

I want to cry in frustration.

I'm sorry my bile has to spill onto here but it's just so irritating.

It makes my blood boil that companies intentionally do the following:

1/ Take your money
2/ Give you crap or no service
3/ In the event that you get no service and are entitled to a refund they then make it as difficult as possible to get your money back in the hope that you'll just give up

My competitive streak just does not allow me to be beaten hence I don't give up.

As with any conflict, when you are fighting on multiple fronts, there are dark days.

But have no fear.

I shall not going to be beaten by pen-pushing Little Hitlers at the companies I mentioned.

I'm listening to Marilyn Manson to rally my cause. He sings an excellent little ditty called Use Your Fist And Not Your Mouth.

All this modern living sucks. I'm going to move to the Seychelles and sell ice creams.

Oh - and having said all of that...

Is there anyone who invests or plays the stock market here in the UK? Could you drop me a mail or leave a comment please? Pretty, please?

The Welsh rower

In a month's time I will be in Cape Town on the beach.

I don't know where my countdown timer gets 35 days from, but that's apparently right according to the calendar. Even though it's a month ago.

Tonight it's about 2C in London and there is frost on all the cars. It is 28C in Cape Town.

I go to bed at night dreaming of the sand beneath my feet and inbetween my toes (though not in my bumcrack which always hurts.)

Actually - do you want to know what real pain is?

Go for a very long run along the beachfront and then when you are at your sweatiest and the midday sun is at its hottest, sit down in the sand.

Then after the sand has permeated every single nook in your undercarriage, stand up and vigorously scratch your ass.

That, my friends, is pain.

I am also dreaming about alcohol too.

The last alcoholic drink I had was a Smirnoff Ice at Juicy in Area on January 1st. I remember it well.

If you could magically teleport me, so that right at this moment, I was lying on a beach with an ice-cold San Miguel in my hand I would allow you to keep me as your sex slave for 40 days and 40 nights.

So all this talk of the beach has one important aspect; what to wear.

Now I have done some surfing (geddit) and I think the latest fashion is naked.

No, not naked as in your dangly bits hanging around, I mean naked as in swimwear like this...

Can we all just agree that this is one sexy muthafukka with some seriously sexy swimwear on? (Even if the pose is a bit ridiculous...)

Having done some very thorough research I have discovered that these trunks are from aussieBum

So I have ordered three pairs.

The best bit is that you can't really tell they're aussieBum which makes them good.

Anyway enough of that... get this.

Tonight I went on my most dangerous assignment yet. Check it out, bitches..

It's everyone's second-favourite X-Factor finalist.

That's right. I bravely took my mobile phone into the gym and papped dear Rhydian on the rowing machine.

This was taken from the gym mat while I was doing sit-ups. It's him in the middle.

So what do we know?

Well, he drinks his water out of a used Diet Coke bottle and he wears New Balance shoes.

He was wearing a black T-shirt from the musical Godspell and he had a jacket which said Kylie Minogue on the back, in silver lettering. Interesting.

For someone who's apparently signed a £1million record deal with Simon Cowell, you'd think he could afford more than a used Diet Coke bottle to drink out of.

Yes, I'm ready to jump

It's shortly after 1am and I've just pushed the send button.

Five years ago tomorrow I got onto an airplane and travelled to London. I had £800 and a suitcase packed with clothes and CVs.

I cannot believe it was five years ago. It feels like yesterday but it feels like an age too.

The plan was that London would always be an intermediary.

It was always supposed to be a stepping stone to something bigger and better.

Although I don't like her I have the lyrics to Madonna's Jump in my head.

"There's only so much you can learn in one place
The more that I wait
The more time that I waste"

My plan was that I would finally settle in the United States.

Tonight, on the eve of my being here for five years, I've just sent three applications off for vacancies in America; two in LA and one in Chicago.

While I had only planned to be here for around five years, what I hadn't anticipated was that I would fall in love with London like I have.

But I have dreams and I have ambitions and those seem to lead a path to the United States.

So in a way this is the start of the long good-bye to London.

I feel exactly the same emotions as I do when I decided to finally leave Cape Town. It's a crushing sadness but intense excitement.

I'm not going anywhere for the moment but in the huge supertanker that is my life, I have just given notice to the engine room that we've come to the part in our journey where we're going to start changing course.

You start with the small steps - firing off a few CVs to see who bites.

And so it starts here...


Are you ready to jump? Yes, I'm ready to jump.

Sunrise and Krug

You must have seen the story about Corey Delaney, the guy in Melbourne who threw a thrash-up for friends while his parents were on holiday.

Riot police were called in to stop the party after more than 500 people rocked up.

In normal circumstances everyone would think Corey was a spoilt brat who wasted the police's time but not on this occasion.

Hell, no. Check out that stomach.

This is Corey, swaggering down the front telling reporters that he wasn't bothered because "he doesn't remember much of the party anyway."

Here's one of Corey's mates the next morning running down the road naked.

Oh. shit.

I've just realised that Corey is only 16 years old. This isn't too bad given that the age of consent in Victoria is 16 years old.

Hmm. This actually makes me so depressed because it means that this guy was born in 1991.

Fuck. I can remember 1991.

I always like to think that I'm young(ish) and 29 isn't that old but...

1991 was the year that Silence of the Lambs came out.
In 1991 Madonna was working on Erotica and getting all naked for her Sex book.
In 1991 Baywatch had already been on the TV for two years!

Now who feels old?

When I was younger, fatter and partying endlessly while drinking loads while popping everything from uppers to downers, pissing on other peoples' lives and smashing cars up in the process I used to think 'fuck this - this is my life who gives a shit.'

But now, in the year that I turn 30 (fuck), I think maybe it would have been nice had it been a bit different.

I refuse to feel remorse and I'm certainly not going to make a list of regrets but the older you get, the more that feeling surfaces.

Actually, screw it.

I cannot wait to turn 30. Ironically "early 30s" sounds much younger "than 29 years old."

I think when I get to South Africa I am going to reclaim my youth, send my parents off and throw a massive thrash-up in their house.

This may fuck my inheritance up but who gives a shit.

For this house party there will be:

Vats of alcohol with beers, wine and spirits.
Our swimming pool filled with loads of inflatable dolphin thingies.
The sound system will have sub-bass woofers that make the windows rattle.
Our tennis court will be turned into a massive dancefloor with spinklers so we can have a wet underpants competition.
Unless 700 or more people turn up, the party will be cancelled.
And towards the end of the evening I will choose four or five or six of the fittest guys to spend sunrise with me in the pool house. In there we will interact, drink Krug, have a dust-up and watch the sun come up over the mountain.

Just thinking about this makes my pulse quicken.

Down on my knees

Dear God,

In the gym there are four guys who've started to work out together.

The first guy is blonde and quite obviously on steroids. He is young and pumped.

His workout mate is tall and wears a vest, he has chest hair which, on a young guy, is v. hot as you know.

The other two are southern European except I can't work out their accents. The one looks like an Abercrombie model and his mate is short with massive arms.

Each one of them can be no more than 25 years old.

They pump each others' iron. They do elaborate hand shakes when they meet.

Tonight the one with the hairy chest had his phone and was filming the pumped one doing pull-ups.

You could see his sixpack as his shirt lifted when he hung from the cross bar.

The Abercrombie one wears designer underpants because above his shorts line you can see a huge EA symbol.

They laugh together and take it in turns to slap each other on the back playfully.

Sometimes the Abercrombie one jokingly grabs the pecs of the boy with the massive arms.

The young hairy-chested one flexes his biceps and his steroid friend presses them to see how hard they are.

At any point during their workout they are never more than 15 cms apart.

Tonight, when near them, I could smell their man-smells.

Steroid boy was lying down on the bench and you could see the trail from his belly-button to the top of his shorts.

Abercrombie stands over him as he lifts the weights up.

They share water bottles and if necessary they squeeze, push and stretch each other.

In the changeroom they strip off together and compare sixpacks.

They're in a pack together as they pull down their pants or take their shoes off and they all go and shower together, soaping up and comparing muscles in the shower.

God, please. Tonight I'm only going to ask you for one thing.

Please will you make me part of their group?

Bobby

Oh and PS. Please could you also stop me getting a semi everytime I'm near them. Or actually maybe ignore this request. I'll just wear tighter underwear. Thanks again.

I am Nora

I come here to confess my sins. Forgive me, for I have done it again.

A gay who both I and my flatmate know was having a birthday lunch today at a well-known restaurant on Old Compton Street.

Yes, the restaurant, not the cafe near G-A-Y.

A few weeks ago, when I got the invite, I had said I would attend, my flatmate was going to as well. As the day crept closer so I began to regret having said yes.

That restaurant is just not my cup of Mojito. It's just tired and - I don't like it.

So on Friday I made this elaborate excuse that I had been called into work unexpectedly (I work in an industry where this can easily happen) and hoped that this would be enough to get me out of going.

I said I had to start at 2pm so since they were meeting at 1pm I could stop in for a glass of orange and lemonade which I did.

Thankfully, just as the conversation turned to the Selfridges sale and Kylie so I glanced at my watch.

"Oops! Gotta go to work, guys..."

I'm at the end of Old Compton Street when I realise that after their birthday lunch they're probably going to go back to our flat a.k.a. "Let's all go back to Bobby and Anna's place because a/ it's close, b/ they have good furnishings and c/ they have a guest loo."

Hence this rules me out being able to go home and hide incase everyone pitches up after lunch.

I then realise that there's nothing I can do except wander the streets of London for a few hours. After about 20 minutes of ambling around I get really bored so I decide that there's only one thing to do, to kill time.

Yes, I have come into the office.

I have the TV on, a printer at my disposal and a 17litre bottle of water from the cooler.

Now you may be wondering why I didn't take one of the following options instead:
1/ Find another friend to hang out with
2/ Go to the cinema / gym / spend Sunday evening in a sauna
3/ Sit on the Circle line all evening going around in circles reading a book

And these are the reasons why:
1/ Once you've told one lie to one group of people it's a bit bad to start compounding it. i.e. "I had tea with Bobby last weekend." "Oh really, he said he had to work" etc.
Or what about "somebody pick-pocketed me." "What, while you were in the office?"
Or what about my housemate phones me "I've locked myself out , what time are you coming home and why does it sound like you're in the middle of Oxford Street?"

2/ Nothing at the movies that I really want to see (except for Charlie's War), went to gym this morning and spending Sunday evening wasting time at a sauna is even worse than having to endure Ballends.

3/ There were delays.

Right now I feel like Nora Nofriends sitting here hiding. You know what it's like though - sometimes you really cannot be bothered.

I always used to say that one luxury in life is not having to do anything you don't want to do.

I just didn't realise that sometimes this would mean having to hide out in the office on a Sunday night with nothing to do.

Maybe I should go and do something useful like photocopy my cock or spunk in the coffee creamer.

All the world needs is M&Ms

Midnight Edit
At the bottom I wrote some beautiful, profound stuff that merges war and peace, life and death but it all kinda looks outta place when what I really should be doing is posting stupid videos.

So I've had a rethink.

At the bottom you can still see the beautiful prose but if you can't be bothered to read that far - here's a video.

I was able to make it thanks to my odd illness which doesn't manifest any symptoms other than, when I wake up I voice that sounds like gravel. See for yourself...



And now back to the original post:

Because I've been feeling a little shit I've been eating a bit too much chocolate to make up for my illness.

This isn't helped by some fucker at work...

Near one of the doors is a sweety vending machine that dispenses Minstels, Jelly Beans and M&Ms.

Except some cheeky bastard has pushed Sellotape into the winder that dispenses M&Ms.

It caused a near-stampede after it emerged that there was free "food" and what a pathetic site to see adults queuing with empty coffee cups from the Ritazza trolley to raid the sweets vendor.

Yes, I was there with my Ritazza cup too. Then I felt a bit sick.

Then - this is a little heavy but it got me wondering.

There's a story in the news that goes something like this...

Six British soldiers in Basra were killed in an ambush by Iraqi insurgents in 2003.

The Iraqi government has just written to the dead men's parents to say that their deaths were not in vain and that they would be doing everything possible to try and catch the killers.

I was watching the TV and one of the dead soldier's dads was on and he said that apparently Iraq's justice minister had told him that they were sure that one of the men, wanted for the ambush, had since been killed in the ongoing violence.

Lying in bed last night I wondered what the Iraqi killer would say to the young British soldier he killed, when they met in heaven.

I felt so sorry for us as humanity.

How small and pathetic each one of us is in the world and how there are so many millions of other people whose lives are so much less than ours.

I felt like I wanted to give everyone in the world a big hug.

This morning I packed off to gym and on the way some selfish idiot pushed in front of me to board the Tube.

Through gritted teeth I mumbled "there's no reason to shove, you stupid fucking cunt."

Sun factor Z

X-Factor is a TV programme like Pop Idull or American Idull or whatever.

Late last year it was all very exciting when one of the show's finalists starting working out at my gym.

This is because he's blonde (?), Welsh and a virgin (!). I know a few other guys who've made that excuse too. Anyway.

Actually, having Rhydian working out at our gym wasn't that exciting, it just added to the motley band of idiots who pump it up at North London's finest.

The memorable bit came one night when the paparazzi started stalking him at the gym.

You may remember this picture. In it we see Rhydian standing admiring himself near the pec machine and the windows to the swimming pool...

And it was intriguing because Rhydian has no bum, rather puney arms but an enormous chest.

Of course we all wondered what he would look like without his shirt on, didn't we? (Humour me by saying "yes". Thanks.)

Well, thank the paparazzi again.

Lady (is there even one?) and Gentlemen, I give you...

This. Rhydian in a swimming costume.

Now obviously I am not that defined but goddamit I am far more in proportion. Check out his tiny little arms.

This now begs the question, do we find him hot, yes or no?

Of course this is all hypothetical as we know that Rhydian is celibate so there's no chance of a leg-over anyway.

By the way - if Rhydian is a virgin and not into sex, then why does he spend so much time preening and pumping himself up? Odd.

So, for the record, I am turned off.

He has orange-looking chest hair which suggests that although "blonde" on the top, down below it may be a little orange too. I guess when naked it would just look weird.

Whatever. Enough of that. I know what you're more interested to know about is my Man Flu.

So here's an update: I have a slightly low voice (from phlegm) and I have sneezed today. I think this is the virus making a last stand.

The downside is that, for a second night in a row, I haven't been to gym. Shit.

That's bad but not quite as bad as blonde on top and orange down below. Surely.

Yellow, brown or clear

Oh for fuck's sake.

Actually, listen - we're not going to talk about bodily fluids any more (for this week anyway).

However.

The fuck's sake is because I am sick. Well, I have a cold.

Hence it means I have been coughing up phlegm and gobbing into my hand all day.

This is because I believe the in the following old wives' tale.

It's probably all crap (er, spit...) but this is why, when you're having a cold you should check your spittle:

1/ If it's clear gob you're at the start of the infection
2/ If it's green gob you've got a cold / pneumonia / one week to live
3/ If it's yellowey your body's fighting infection and it's on its way out

Well, my gob is yellow which means I am on the mend.

After the symptoms surfaced last night I have taken echinacea (drops and tablets), Berocca, Lemsip sachets and pills, First Defence, green tea and chamomile tea.

And some oranges, M&S pomegranate juice and boiling water, honey & lemon.

I have also made the calculated risk of missing gym tonight.

Basically I thought if I miss gym tonight and get better then it would be worse than going to gym tonight and making my infection worse.

Bla, bla, bla.

So a while ago I decided to declare a few things so instead of talking about cum and spit I thought a few more would be fun.

Yes, when I told you my pin number 3335 I was being totally honest.

It was that but I've since lost the card so it's changed.

So here are three more declarations.

1/ When I'm on the Tube / public transport I don't listen to what I consider to be crap music (2 Unlimited / Haddaway) on my iPod because I have this irrational fear that people will be able to hear what I'm listening to and laugh at me.

2/ I think I have a mild form of body dysmorphic disorder. When I look into the mirror I see someone slightly overweight with a huge waist and scrawny arms. I know it's not the case but I just can't see myself any differently.

3/ I say this slightly apprehensively because well, who cares. So speaking of eating.
I have this terrible problem that I judge people too seriously based on their table manners.

Basically these feature at the top of the Problem Scale:

a/ Holding your knife like a pen
b/ Chewing with your mouth open
c/ Not putting your knife and fork together when finished etc.

Jeez I sound like an uptight cnut.

Yeah, maybe that should be point number 4. Maybe I'm a little too judgemental and uptight.

But then again maybe it's just my cold.

That's the funniest thing about blogs really. Every night you read me in around 400 words and your imagination fills in the gaps.

Based on your comments my imagination fills in the gaps about you.

I think that if you knew me in real life you probably wouldn't like me at all.

And vice versa?

Fleck me not

And we're back from the break.

So to the worst shag ever.

Well, We never even got as far as a shag because...

It was a(nother) Gaydar meet and I went to his flat in Canary Wharf and he worked in the City and again, he was clearly loaded.

And one other thing, I reckon he was wedded as well (to a woman).

The apartment just looked too "married" if you know what I mean i.e. there were pictures on one of bookcases turned flat.

Anyway - so we start kissing a bit and he's a quite good kisser and things start to get a little more intense. This is all happening on the couch in the lounge.

He then stands up and says we should take our clothes off and he does so - removing everything (like "straight" men do). And of course I glance down to check what equipment he's wheeling out.

I look and I think er - has he maybe wiped his willy clean with toilet paper because there are all these little white flecks all over it.

Okay, I am not going to go any further but basically I said "what's that on your dick?"

He looks sheepishly and says "oh - yeah..." and tries to wipe it away but it doesn't kinda go away.

I can't bear to look any closer because it's quite obvious what it is because I can smell it.

Had I not moved back I would have thrown up. It was fucking cheese / smegma / ohmygod.

I just remember scrambling to put my clothes on and going "mate, you really need to wash that."

God knows what possessed me but I then literally ran out his house, down the stairs across the plaza, through the shopping centre and into Canary Wharf station on the Jubilee Line, now renamed Smegma Junction.

The image is seered into my brain. Beware of willies that appear to have white flecks of loo paper on them.

It goes down as the worst fucken shag I have ever had and I was barely even undressed.

He was very handsome in a Wall Street kinda way and had a good body but his cock stank like the fromagerie counter at Harrods.

Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.

So come on... that's my story, can you beat it?

The worst shag you ever, ever had - I would love to hear it please. Remember - you can always be anonymous and it doesn't have to be long.

To help inspire you, I've given you a picture. Here, for your delight, is a random picture from a cookery book.

Cold and dangly

For the second night in a row I have typed something so beautiful and funny / poignant / earth-shattering it could the equivalent to the fucking Dead Sea Scrolls.

And for the second night in a row this stupid programme has deleted the post instead of saving it.

Oh man, I am trying to control my anger.

Last night the same thing happened and we ended up talking about wanking for God's sake.

Actually, while we're on the subject, do you wank with the same hand you write with or does everyone toss off with their right hand?

I was once interacting with his guy and he jerked off with both hands. It was kinda weird - in this like motion that you would throw a medicine ball with.

It's so bad, isn't it? Meeting guys off Gaydar / Manhunt / the net for a quickie.

That's why I never entertain at home.

I am the world's worst for pitching up at their front doors and going "ooh - mate, you look nothing like what I expected... I'm kinda not interested..." and then walking away.

It's very rude but you gotta have the chemistry! And hello, I'm there for a leg-over, not charity.

Once, I had been messaging this guy for a few weeks and he was really fit.

So one Sunday we decide to meet and I pitch up at his beautiful flat in Marylebone. He's about 35, Italian, very hot (amazing body) and obviously loaded.

We chat in the lounge, start to climb all over each other and it moves to the bedroom.

The interaction continues but stops for while as he leans over to his bedside table where there's a massive line of er, castor sugar.

He hoovers up a mountain of the stuff and I think, "hmm... that's a bit stupid." Of course, about ten minutes later things fall very limp.

We try and start again but I stop saying "mate - this is a little tedious if you're not excited..."

He says I should lie there while he's happy to do all the work, so I lie back for a while. However when I reach down there it's all cold and dangly.

He apologises again and goes to find some purple pills. He takes two, now about 45 minutes after going soft.

I am bored, so not into this anymore. He climbs back onto the bed and says I should lie back - he gets to work again but I start thinking about DIY.

"Sorry mate, I'm really not into this anymore..."

"But, but...."

In the end I left him behind, gulping Viagra and gurning. I really couldn't be bothered to see if he ended up standing to attention again.

I think I walked to Tesco and did some shopping instead.

All the best shags I've had have been with guys who I've met in real life, we've chatted, flirted and then our knickers have become intertwined.

All the worst shags I've had have been with guys I've met up with, thanks to the net.

Disclaimer: The sample for this research is not that enormous, mind. Please don't think I draw from a vast well of experience.

So when you read that for 2004/5 in London alone, Gaydar's turnover was £8m you have to think goddamit that's a LOT of bad sex.

I'm going to try and think of my worst-ever sex. Marylebone man has to rate amongst the worst because of what could have been.

No, no! I have remembered the worst. Ohmygod... it was ba-a-a-ad. It's making my stomach turn slightly, just thinking about it.

And then - just as they do when the story gets good - we cut to an ad break.

Knuckle shuffle

There are two bits of extra to this story.

The first is that a colleague of mine, who's also a friend of mine, lives within about 100 yards of my house.

She - who will be called Anna - and I are both voracious curtain-twitchers so nothing that happens in our Hood escapes our attention.

The second extra information sounds more exciting than the reality. It is that sometimes I get driven to work.

So.

One morning last summer I was up early and went out to get into the car. Except the driver didn't see me coming.

But he certainly was!

His seat was reclined and through the back window on the opposite side it was quite clear he was having an early morning wank.

I reacted like you do when you witness something like that. At first you can't actually believe what you've just seen.

So I walked back around to the other side of the road and approached from the front so he could see me.

He sat up, I got in and we went to work.

(He was seriously not hot and it actually made me wince when he handed me the pen at the end of the ride to sign his duty log)

So Anna says one night she was standing on her balcony and in the bushes below a black cabbie driver (the cab was black, not him) got out to take a pee in the bushes.

Then she says he moved further into the bushes and was stood there for a few minutes.

He wasn't there checking the wildlife.

Isn't it funny how, if you're with friends you can say "last night my boyfriend came around" and you know the code means "we shagged."

But when have you asked someone how their evening was for them to reply, "well I had the most a-ma-ma-ma-zing wank ever!"

And girls don't wank ever, do they?

So here's a list - score yourself please and I have to know the results. 1 point for each.

You don't have to tell me which ones, just your score. Of course I'll totally love you if you tell me where you scored...

1/ I have wanked in the shower at the gym
2/ I have tossed one off on a train journey
3/ I have had a sneaky shuffle under the blanket on a long-haul flight
4/ I one whacked one off at work
5/ In a place other than my bed, I have been caught jackin off by someone else

You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine.

And feel free to add any more points, please... I'd love you to outrage me.

i.e. "I wanked off in a space shuffle and the spunk floated away" etc. You can leave comments anonymously but be honest!

0% alcohol

I said that for the month of January I was not going to drink booze. A lot of people do it, I decided to give it a try.

It's not yet the 5th of January yet but...

Oh god, I am so desperate for a beer or a glass of wine, it's killing me.

I was in Covent Garden earlier and someone was stood in front of me at the ATM with a beer in their hand. I want so badly to do a smash and sip.

Fuck knows how I am going to last the whole month? Well, I didn't know until I came up with a genuis plan.

Instead of drinking, I'll do a virtual version of it.

So I went to our wine cellar (the rack in the corner of the lounge) and pulled out some of our best vintages and had one big lick-off.

To start I thought we'd have a liquer.

A South African staple, this is Amarula. The "legend" is that it's lion's shit mixed at midnight by elephants or something. Whatever.

It's a great way to unplug a session of pretend drinking.

Next we lick the 2007 Spier Chardonnay.

Apparently this wine has "rich citrus aromas that follow through to a smooth, elegant palate with a creamy lime aftertaste."

Yes, I got all of that. Yummy.

Here's our next tasting... a Boschendal 1995 Shiraz.

Apparently this is "amazingly spicy and full of smoky red fruit flavours."

Oh whatever.

This is silly.

I have put the wine down because it's of no use. It doesn't taste the same. I have to make it to January 30th without touching any booze.

Not for you, not for the off-licence but for me.

If I can last to January 30th without a drop to drink it will be the longest period without alcohol since I was about 17 years old.

Actually do you know, this has nothing to do with alcohol but everything to do with discipline.

It's about making a plan and sticking to it.

On February 1st I am going on the biggest booze-bender ever.

So on the morning of February 2nd not only will I have a terrible hang-over but I'll be the smug, self-satisfied cunt with a hangover.

On a completely separate note - has anyone got any cigarettes? There's no moritorium on them. Yet.

Hitting the gay skid

Today has allowed me to do some rigorous testing. This is, as you know, because of my Offer Which You Can't Refuse.

It is an all-expenses paid trip to South Africa, the only proviso is that you have to make your way there in my luggage.

With this in mind I have therefore been testing out my luggage to check reliability, durability and space.

Based on the evidence I have gathered, I think we're going to have to have another think about the size restriction.

Here are the results of my vigorous testing in a strict and controlled environment.

This first picture shows you (the smuggled, as modeled by me) assuming the most effective position.

This is pose we may have to adopt at the Virgin Atlantic check-in desk. All of these tests are based on the tried and trused assumption that if you can't see the airline crew, then they can't see you.

In this picture the optimism of our plan wanes slightly. As you can see - I am quite clearly visible in the suitcase.

I was thinking that the way we could get around this would be for me to buy a Burberry Check suitcase and then for you to dress in Burberry, thus integrating with the equipment seamlessly.

This photo above is purely to illustrate how ridiculous it would be if we were to try and smuggle you out in my hand luggage.

So, after the seriousness of This Offer we turn to something far more frivolous.
Note: irony.

A guy who I went to school with (hence him being 29 years old) has just come out of the closet. He announced it on his Facebook page (tacky, I know).

This is both brave and stupid. It is brave because well, for obvious reasons, but it is stupid too.

Stupid because he was seriously nasty to a lot of guys at school who were gay. And now he looks a bit silly.

He has genuinely come out because my friend saw him in Cape Town yesterday and confirmed that he is indeed now gay. Or gay-ish i.e. finds men attractive and wants to sleep with them.

I want to send him a message and don't really know what to say.

What does one say?

"Congratulations" or "oi, you fag - you were a pretty rude sonovabitch to some quite harmless people."

Maybe it's not my place to say those things, it's for the people he insulted to say them.

I was lucky and privileged (there's that ironic sarcasm again) to have gone to a private all-boys school so having guys come thundering out the closet is an annual event. Like the traditional rolling of the cheese in Wiltshire.

It's funny because each guy who's done it over the age of 25 has followed this exact pattern:

1/ Announce they're gay
2/ Hit the club / drug / Gaydar / sauna scene like a kid in a candy shop releasing years of pent-up homogay feelings
3/ Regret having done everything they did in point 2

We're going to call my new gay classmate Craig.

I am pretty sure that I will see Craig in hot pants, a leather harness and a feather boa, leading the pride-parade in Cape Town in February. Less than six weeks after announcing to the world that he's a homo.

It's encouraging and depressing in equal measure.

Encouraging because at least Craig can now be who he wants to be and sort his life out.

Depressing because he's just about to hit the gay "skid" and after all the drugs, bathhouse sex and Gaydar meets he's going to wake up one morning and think "I can't believe that this is what being gay is all about."

I won't mention this to him in the message though.

Countdown to Clifton

So I am going to the gym like mad and Chris who's helping me out there is working me like a fucking bitch, all in preparation for February 19th.

That's when I fly to Cape Town and I cannot wait.

I can't fathom exactly why I'm so excited about going - I do it every year, sometimes bi-annually but for some reason I am looking forward to this holiday more than the ones before.

In this freezing weather what is giving me reason to smile is the thought of walking onto Clifton Beach in three weeks' time.

Hence I've stuck my little countdown timer on the right.

I was having a crisis the other day but I'm over it now. Things at the gym are going swimmingly.

The highlight of my trip is going to be stepping onto Clifton 3rd beach, dumping my stuff and walking towards the icy sea.

Here's some pictures I've found on the net of is what probably one of the most beautiful beaches on this planet...



I've also figured a plan.

When I go I usually take a large suitcase so, if you wanted, I could smuggle you out in my luggage.

This would be excellent because then at least we could help each other by rubbing sun tan cream into each other's backs.

When I am there on weekdays most of my friends will be at work except for Nick who's a Trustafarian and hates beaches.

Please let me know if you're interested in this proposal.

Do note though:
Firstly you're not allowed to be from the southern hemisphere (because you're not in the throws of a shitty winter!) and secondly you can't be too big. The suitcase isn't that spacious.

Burning at both ends

Holy fucking hell.

I am so bored. I know this is a luxury, not having to go to work and it not having it counted as leave, but fuck me.

Some blogs are so profound, poor souls who write things like "I'm a blogger in Baghdad and today I dodged two suicide bombers while the Americans who were trying to shoot at us".

Or "I thought my terminal illness was in remission but now it's now back ..."

While all I can write is "changed the loo roll in the guest toilet and shredded some old bank statements."

I shouldn't be allowed to do this.

Oh yeah, I went to gym today and I can officially tell you that the present, anyone who's anyone received this Christmas was an iPhone.

"I'm just going to put it in this see-through pouch here - on my arm while I work out. So you can my shiny new iPhone everyone, I am going to wear a vest so that my arms show. Look. An iPhone is strapped to it. I have one. Me... have... iPhone."

And going to the gym is like being an exhibit at the zoo.

New potential members being shown around brimming with "must get fit" resolutions that I guarantee you will wear off in two weeks.

At this point Bobby has to stop writing. An hour later, he is able to continue his post:

20.36 Update
You're not going to fucking believe this BUT...

I didn't believe in karma but now I do (maybe). So I'm writing how fucking bored I am and as if by magic all the fucken lights have gone out.

This is not a joke.

I am nicking the wireless connection from the neighbours, the man from EDF energy should be here "within the next FOUR hours" and our house is lit up with so many candles it looks like the Vatican at Christmas.

Blogging by candlelight is odd. I love that without electricity I can still use a computer, listen to music and phone friends across the world.

Thank fuck I managed to find some candles though.

When the lights first went to black, after I'd phoned the electricity man I needed the loo.

Have you ever tried to take a piss while using your mobile phone as a torch?

Just as you get the seat up, the phone in your mouth and your knob out - so the light on the phone turns off. Mid-stream.

Maybe I should just be like the Victorians, ditch the phone and piss all over the floor.

There is actually one funny side to this...

All of the candles we have are scented ones so not only is the house lit up like Festive Mass but it also stinks like a whore's boudoir. Funny that.

So, which of you bitches got an iPhone for Christmas? Come on...

Club me

Party with some colleagues and friends. Then to the Thames to watch the fireworks.

Then some club in Vauxhall (Juicy at Area) where met other people and danced until about 6am.

I am not going to admit this publicly but between you and me, I really enjoyed Area. The music was amazing, I had two club boyfriends* and get this - I ran into a guy who I went to junior school with in Cape Town more than 15 years ago!

Here's a grainy picture of me with some stupid lumo thing in my mouth.

Others decided to go to Horse Meat Disco but the name always puts me off so I went home.

Before all that wankey New Year crap I did some shopping.

And on the second floor of Selfridges I fell in love.

This is my all-consuming obsession now until I have them (or until some nice, lovely, beautiful, thoughtful and caring person, i.e. you, buys them for me.)

Please can we all just admire these.

Are they not the most beautiful sunglasses you have ever seen in your life?

Just to let you know that they're Prada and they have my name written all over them.

I'm sorry to be so gay and obsess over sunglasses but they really are beautiful.

And here's the bit that makes me cry. Well, I can't actually say the words without welling up...

Instead I'll just say it one word. £210 (or $430).

Okay, this is getting really gay so I'm going to stop.

* = a club boyfriend is someone who you see in the club that you like. Then you dance near them and they near you. And then they start accidentally bumping into you.

Then a quiet bit of the song comes on and you turn around and smile at them and then you both suck each other's faces off while thinking "this is the most beautiful guy in the whole entire world - I am going to spend the rest of my life with them."

As the song goes fast again and you dance together a bit more and then you say you need the loo and they smile and they go to get some water and then when you spot each other again you pretend like you've never seen each other one in your life before.

I think in one evening you can't have more than 3 club boyfriends because then you'll just look slaggy / desperate / a loser.

I've yet to end up going home with a club boyfriend but I have to say I'm not too sure of the protocol on this.

And also, is it rude to ignore your friends and spend the evening with your new boyfriend? Introducing the two is formalising it a little too much.

Actually, I think it's best to leave all club boyfriends for the dancefloor because it's just much easier. As soon as friends and quiet corners of the club are involved, things just get complicated.