Picture Bobby 4

Yuck, yuck, fucky yucky...

I went out for dinner with a former colleague and like most people who work in TV, she smokes. And I, in a moment of weakness, decided to have one of hers.

It was a fucking Gauloise Mild and on the first drag I got that horrible shivery feeling and I feel like shit shit shit. I still have the taste in my mouth nearly two hours later.

Yuck.

Usually I enjoy a rogue fag but on this occasion it's really gone down the wrong way.

Anyway - so as you know, while in Cape Town I have been meeting a lot of people (friends of friends), some of whom aren't really my kind of people.

In order to get through this and be as nice as possible, I have started to ask myself "what would Carla do?" (This is thanks to Andrea who came up with this, frankly, genius idea).

Basically Carla Bruni is the poster-girl for civil social interaction. Her air of cold and sincere disinterest is skill one aspires to emulate.

People who meet Carla think "she's so lovely and interesting too, we must have her and her husband around for dinner."
Whereas Carla thinks "hmm... that woman's shoes didn't match her outfit."

Anyway - so I nearly fell out of bed this morning when I heard the news. Bitches, look who's jetted into Cape Town on a two-day visit...

Fuck knows if it was a joke to get them all to stand in size order but can we all please pause to consider Carla.

This is the welcoming party where the South African president and his wife plus M. Sarkozy are all beaming. They're all saying "this is a wonderful day for Franco-South African relations."

Carla, on the other hand, is probably thinking; "I could do with some Perrier and Proust."

Actually, this is democracy so if you can think up an idea of what Carla is probably thinking, please leave a comment or mail me. The best one will win a prize which I dunno is what though. The prize is that you get to choose it.

Anyway...

Today I did a whole bunch of stuff in and around the city and snapped a few random pictures.

If you're a homesick Seth Efriken in London (or elsewhere in the world) I hope you like them. If you've never been, I hope they're at least visually interesting, even if they were taken with a mobile phone, and if you aren't either well, enjoy them anyway.

So this is driving into the city on the N1 highway.

I took this because we were crawling along as everyone tried to merge into the left lane. Yes okay, I'll say it; people are afraid to merge on the freeway in Cape Town.

This next one kinda ties in with the vague California reference, it's downtown in the city.

Aren't you getting a serious LA vibe here?

So next is a photo of an iconic landmark in Cape Town, the unfinished freeway. It's a freeway that's unfinished. Obviously.

There are so many theories about why it's like that - but there it is.

This is another arbitrary traffic intersection but I thought the tree and the mountain (Lions Head) looked kinda nice.

Next, can we look at this nightclub - the fiercest one I think I have seen in a while.

The entrance was in some really dingy side-street down in the seedy area of the city. Some of the neon was cracked (which hopefully results in it buzzing and flickering) and there were bits of broken glass in the gutter.

Imagine pitching up here in pink lycra with a glitter smile and saying to the doorman (who I imagine would pack guns into his socks), "hey sugar!"

There would be your teeth and tinsel all over the pavement, along with the broken glass.

Next, this is going to be the stadium which, when finished, will host the opening game of the 2010 Football World Cup. It's in Green Point.

All good except that it's called the African Rennaissance Stadium. Yes, that's the ARS.

Finally, I like this image with the incredibly long shadows. Taken in Mouille Point (Moo-lee) as the sun sets.

Bronx Bobby

I spotted this sign which was actually made out of metal so I'm not sure if it was genuine. But there it was, on the wall.

And so Andrew, Ian and Me and various others ended up at the lesbian bar last night.

I have learnt that in Cape Town there are two bars for "the community" (I hate that phrase and promise not to use it again).

Anyway, there is The Lesbian Bar and The Gay Bar. They are next door to each other.

This sign, below, was on the wall in the lesbian bar and if anyone can please offer up a translation, that would be great. Are they song lyrics? And who the fuck is Milly?

We got a bit bored in the lesbian bar (when the Bon Jovi remix started, it was time to go), so we moved on to Bronx next door.

If you've ever been out on the tiles in Cape Town, chances are that at some point you'll have ended up at The Bronx Action Bar (to give it its proper title).

I don't know if it sets out to be so unbelievably trashy but it is.

And not sophisticated trashy like champagne and diamonds in the gutter, more like rum and coke in a plastic cup in the gutter.

However, on this occasion the place managed to sink to a new level of trashiness. (Notice how I've used the word "trash" four times.)

So everyone's standing around drinking rum and coke, or brandy and coke, or beer and a Celine Dion remix is blasting.

Then, this guy gets up onto the bar and starts dancing around the greasy pole, mounted between the bar and the mezzanine.

At first I thought it was a joke but everyone started watching and no-one tried to pull him down so I assume he must have been tasked with providing the entertainment.

This act would take the form of a traditional "clothes removal" routine.

I was so aghast that of course I had to get the phone out.

Here the "stripper" (bwahaha, don't make me laugh) has removed his shirt. Now of course one doesn't want to be rude but...

He had dark hair that had been peroxided blonde. But not blonde like Madonna in her Blonde Ambition tour but blonde like custard yellow. Faded.

In this picture we can see the extent of his physique. Please notice this stomach above his jeans.

And finally... his pièce de résistance. The jeans came down to reveal that he was hiding, well - not much actually.

The air-conditioning wasn't turned up at all and I'm certainly not wanting some guy who's smuggling bananas but dear God. I don't even think they were Calvin Klein.

He should have so got down off there.

He kicked his jeans off and danced around for a bit and then got off (the bar, that is). Someone handed him his jeans back and he mingled with the punters.

It really was a lot worse than I am making it sound. I was aghast and bewildered.

Which leads me nicely onto this...

An advert for some sort of sex bar called Factory in Johannesburg, which I spotted in Exit - a kind of gay listings guide / QX Magazine for South Africa.

Can we all please look at what gets us free entry into "Schlong Night?!"

How on earth do they, um?!

?!!

Free for cash

I'm stopped at the traffic lights (which South Africans call "robots") and there are various guys selling stuff.

Here, you don't just get beggars with dirty water and a Squeegee but people offering items like mobile phone chargers, sunglasses and even clothing.

It's all presumably merchandise that has fallen off the back of a lorry. Or whatever today's euphemism is for pinched.

So this guy comes up to the car ... by the way, check the size of the bolt that the people at the tyre shop pulled out of the tyre from yesterday.

Anyway, so I'm stopped at the lights and this guy comes up to the car to try and sell me a bunch of flowers that have been made from old wire coat hangars.

Basically, the "flowers" are bits of twined metal with beads fed around the parts which make up the petals, yeah?!

I wind down the window and say that I am not interested.

He says "but they're free."

Me:"What, free!?"

Him: "Yes, you can have one, they're free. But you have to give me some coins in return."

This is him walking away dejected after I laughed and declined his offer of "free" metal flowers.

I am going to try and get a snap of all the traders at the various intersections around the city to show you because you wouldn't believe me otherwise.

Tonight it's still, dark and about 27C.

My parents live quite high up above the town and so I've been sat on the balcony watching the view.

It's so beautiful watching all the lights flicker below.

As I got seriously shit-faced last night, I decided that tonight, to stop me getting the urge for booze, I would have a cigarette.

But it didn't help because I still had a glass of red anyway.

Picture Bobby 3

When I was young, the cover of the ABBA album used to fascinate me.

I would look at Annifred and Agnetha sipping bubbly from silver coupe champagne goblets and wish that I was that beautiful.

The woman with the blonde hair staring in the window on the left used to mesmerise me too. Was she jealous or in awe or both or neither?

Tonight is the first night that I feel that I am finally on holiday. So I've decided to find comfort in that ABBA album.

I went downstairs and stole a bottle from my parents' cellar...

Apparently the glasses are sculpted from the tits of Marie Antoinette.

Well, not really because that theory as been so totally and utterly disproved but...

...cheers, bitches.

D'ya like the African-woven Mexican I bought?

Anyway, last night I went to dinner at Ian and Andrew but things got a little out-of-hand so at around 5am, I packed it in and left.

There were about 20 others when I quit, fuck-knows where they came but most importantly I did not break a single Commandment.

Okay, okay... I slightly indulged in a line related to Commandment 4, but according to the rules, I was safe.

Anyway.

We were all supposed to meet for a fry-up breakfast but those bitches have no stamina so I decided to do what I have been looking forward to, since I landed in Cape Town.

Today at just before 1pm, I stepped foot on Clifton 3rd, here moments before treading onto the crystal sand....

Surprisingly for a Sunday the beach was pretty empty but still as beautiful as I left it.

I waded into the Atlantic ocean a little where the yachts were moored off the horizon.

I cannot describe to you how beautiful Clifton is - I think that maybe - in the end, this is where I want my ashes scattered.

There were a few gays at the end of my toes (under the umbrellas in front) but more than that - I wore the pair of gold trunks in public.

So I don't wanna report back on what people thought, because I don't know but all I will say is that some guy offered to rub sun cream in my back.

That has never happened before.

I said "thanks", he did it and that was the end of it. Well, only until I told him that that was the end of it.

Moving on...

On the way back from the beach, disaster struck.

I drove over some bit of metal that punctured the tyre on the car.

Now at this point I have to introduce you to my wheels. Basically I am forced to use my parents' summer 4x4; the car they use for the beach house.

Have you ever fucken changed the tyre on a 4X4?

To paint this picture, I am dressed in leather sandals from Santorini, a Diesel T-shirt and a pair of Maharishi cargo pants.

The temperature outside is about 36C.

Can we all please feel so sorry for the trousers which became covered in axel grease from the wheel I was trying to change.

I got so angry, having made the trousers filthy, that I took them off. Still boiling I then took off the Diesel T-shirt which you can see draped on the wing mirror...

I ended up changing a fucking tyre in those gold aussieBum trunks.

What a goddam show for the poor fuckers who drove past. No-one stopped to bloody help though.

So I finally get home and my parents have to go to some charity event which I am invited to.

This event is the ultimate WASP function you could ever imagine. There are chinos and a prep school education as far as the eye can see.

I refuse to wear chinos so, having been in junior prep, I am qualified to mingle...

Basically a whole bunch of rich white people stand on the lawns of this hotel (The Grand Roche in Paarl, as snapped in my rather good camera-phone picture above) and yaa about how much money they have.

To get through this event I pretended that I was Carla Bruni meeting the French electorate, i.e. cold, sincere but disinterested.

The event goes well, everyone gives more than they can afford as the charity announces they've doubled the takings on last year.

At that moment a squadron of Jaguar drivers wince...(their joke, not mine...)

Wa, wa... I am now at home, drinking champagne and feeling utterly fucken relaxed (tanked / pissed / soaked).

This is what you call a holiday...

Picture Bobby 2

I mentioned how South Africa, and in this case, Cape Town is a land of massive contrasts.

My parents have a house with a wine cellar, employ a man to skim the pool and 20 minutes' drive away...

You have to take these photos out of the passenger window because it's generally too dangerous to stop. They're shacks along the busy freeway into the city.

Most of the people who live there are without jobs, some have electricity but many don't have running water.

Hey, ho!

Anyway - driving into the city centre I get the first glimpse of Table Mountain...

No matter how many times you've seen the mountain or now matter how many years you've lived in Cape Town, the mountain always takes your breath away.

It is beauty on a gargantuan scale.

So, I'm going to meet Andrew & Ian who're a couple, Andrew is a friend from school who I've known for 16 years (more than half my bloody life...)

First we have to go to some drinks do for another gay couple who're leaving for the UK. The reception is at a very swish Cape Town hotel.

I am wearing one of Andrea's T-shirts which makes me look very booby.

You can't tell it from the picture that I'm titty, nor can you tell that the logo says "I Drink At Work."

Well, this is the perfect T-shirt to wear out to a party where you don't know anyone because if one guy came up to ask, 20 did...

"Is that a joke?", "Oh - funny...?", "Is that your company motto?" etc.

Of course I just answered back "it's an exclusive Italian fashion label - I guess it's post ironic really..." which drew a lot of blank faces.

What was also confusing, I guess, was that I was steadfastly drinking only Diet Coke.

The party was going rather nicely, some of the guys were quite fit until this guy joined the conversation.

Fuck knows why he said it, but when he found out I was from London and worked in TV he said "oh, you fit in perfectly because we're all the A-list here.."

I turned to Ian and demanded we leave immediately, so we did.

After dinner we decided to visit some of the poofey bars in Green Point, the gay(ish) area of Cape Town.

The first place we went to was The Loft which is like a ... yeah, you get it.

Spread over two floors, there were some quite fit guys (even though it was quite empty) but I could still hear the comment from the gay drinks party ringing in my head so I was still rather irritated.

And this enormous picture on the wall was just irked me...

Har har - a 6-foot cock. Geddit!?

We weren't at The Loft long and went up to Beulah Bar around the corner.

This is (finally) where the fun started because Beulah Bar is a lesbian bar - the first time I've ever been in a fully-fledged lesbionka establishment.

It was bizarre and ridiculous in one.

Do you know when you take a photo of something, load it onto your PC then push a button and it inverts the colours in the picture?

That is exactly what a lesbian bar is like - a gay bar inverted.

There were mostly lesbians but gays and some straight people too. Like in a gay bar where you have mostly gays, some lesbians and some straight people too.

Nobody drank slim-line tonics, Diet Cokes or vodka. Everyone drank beer straight from the bottle.

These two empties above were stood together, embraced in sapphic heaven, in the loo.

None of the music had the words "fabulous", "gorgeous" or "raining men."

Of the songs I recognised:

Prince - Kiss (Remix)
Lyric sample: "You don't have to be rich to be my girl"

Leo Sayer - Thunder In My Heart (Remix)
Lyric sample: "Girl, I feel a thunder in my heart that takes my breath away."

Sugababes - Push The Button
I don't think I need to extrapolate this one...

There was also a lot of demin going on, boob grabbing (the ladies' boobage, not mine) but otherwise it was actually a lot of fun.

The only thing I thought was slightly ridiculous was this painting on the wall...

What's that rude saying about drinking from the furry cup?

In the end I flirted (and exchanged some mouth-spit) with some Brazilian guy.

You leave London, travel 10,000 miles and you end up having it off with a young Brazilian in a tank top with muscular arms.

The more things change...

Picture Bobby 1

So we finally crank up the Mac to work which is bloody marvellous. It means picture time...!

I can write a whole load of bollocks but let's be honest - pictures are far more interesting. Here's the first batch.

Check out the plane which I reckon they wheeled out when they saw me approaching.

Can you get any more gay than a plane named after ABBA?

Er, yes you can.

Watching Kath & Kim on a plane called Dancing Queen while pissed on G&Ts is about as gay as it gets.

And what the hell do you take me for? Yes, of course I nicked the glass...

(Can I say, in my defence, that I'd forgotten that I'd put it in my suitcase until I was unpacking the morning after. Not that being absolutely shit-faced is an excuse but...
Yes, I know that stealing is wrong but if they get cross then I will give it back.)

I think at this point I'd woken from my stupor as it became apparent that we were about to cross the equator, which means more champagne!

There really was a hot guy up near the front of the plane. I think that's his head - or maybe it was the guy next to him. I don't really remember...

So that was getting here... and what does one do in the sun at 32C for three weeks?

One sits here for some of the time doing fuck all.

After the pool was built my mother insisted it needed a rockery and a fountain.

That's all fine except that it means is that poor Herbert, the gardener, has to spend every second day fishing the leaves out of the pool with the scoop.

Finally at home and this is the view from the back of my parents house...

Of course they're my parents and so I don't want to judge them but I think it's fucking outrageous that we employ a man to come every day, of which half is time is spent fishing the leaves out of the swimming pool.

And there are people, who're in areas we can see from our balcony, who live in squatter shacks without running water and proper sanitation.

South Africa is a beautiful, breathtaking but deeply troubled and troubling country.

More pics to come shortly...

Hang 10

Internet speed in Africa was never going to be good.

My parents are very proud of their new internet router thingy which even has the word "mega" on the side. I don't think the irony is intentional.

However...

As you know, the trip here was a nightmare, made only slightly better when Virgin Atlantic decided I was worthy of an upgrade.

Can I just blow my own for one moment?

Bitches, I am the King (You mean" Queen", surely?) of blagging upgrades. Get this statistic:

Four flights to Cape Town
Each flight has been booked Economy or Premier Economy.
All four have been upgraded to Club World / Upper Class / First.

So I'm sat in 12G and before the aircraft even takes off I have made friends with Helen the onboard masseur and Nina, a really sweet trolley-dolly.

The way you make friends with the dollies is very fucken easy.

When one of them comes over to ask if everything's okay you have to be shameless and say something like "if you're really good you'll get me the number of the hot man over there..."

This immediately says to them:
1. You're gay (all their best friends really are gay)
2. You're a bit trashy (like them) and are up for a bit of a laugh
3. Er, that's it

What happens next is that they love you and are happy to pour you as much alcohol as you can drink.

I think I was pissed before the plane even took off. At 10.30am.

By the time we were over the Sahara I was absolutely paraletic.

I don't remember much else other than landing, getting off the plane and it being very hot.

Today I:

Woke up with a furious hang-over
Sat by the pool at home
Moved inside when Herbert, the gardener, started mowing the lawn near the pool
Arranged a few meet-and-greets with friends
Went back to the pool after Elizabeth, the cleaner, started vacuuming under my feet
Went to gym.

Ohmygod, ohmygod. I've signed up and been to the gym. One visit I could write a book. Or a blog.

But just to mention, because you're probably thinking the worst...

Yes, we have a cleaner who comes five days a week. My mother insists on having two actually. And yes, Herbert is the gardener.

This is South Africa, everyone has staff.

I have a whole bunch of pics I wanna show you but this internet connection is buckling under the stress of the text that I'm typing into Blogger.

I think the whiff of a JPEG would send it into a fucken flatspin.

But let's see what we can organise. Hang on a bit...

Done

Bitches, I am here...

This is coming to you live and direct from Cape Town.

It's 2.48am - our plane only got in at around 1am but I am here.

I am here, I am here, I am so fucking here...

I'm a bit drunk because they kept serving me booze but I am going to gym tomorrow.

The temp in the car said 28C. It was 4C when I left London.

There is no work. There is no delayed Central Line. There is just holiday.

See you later today but for now, I cannot believe that I am fucking here...

Comedy or drama

There is a very fine line between comedy and drama.

You can take any very over-dramatic / violent / full-on film, add a slapstick soundtrack and it would be comedy.

I tell you this because it explains one of the "problems" I have which is: I laugh when I should cry (but not vice versa, funnily enough...)

Instead of seeing a problem, I see the funny side.

The downside of this is that I am constantly accused of not taking things seriously.

The upside, however, is that I still manage to retain a sense of humour, when it has failed all others.

Why do I say all of this?

1/ I am still at Heathrow
2/ Our flight has been delayed by 13 hours
3/ I am still in the same clothes as yesterday
4/ I spent the night at a shit hotel, where there was no food

The flight is supposed to leave at 9am but Virgin Atlantic aren't even sure of that.

Please can we all pat me on the head and go "poor Bobby / shame for you / that's terrible" etc. You can point and laugh too...

I don't really know what else to say at this point because I have run out of inspiration yadda yadda. The fact that it is 6.30am may also have something to do with my lack of

4 engines 4 longhaul

First...

So someone (unsurprisingly called Anonymous) leaves a comment in the last post about me being over-excited at going on holiday and asks "how often do you travel away?" or something like that.

The insinuation from this question is clear; I'm some yokel earth-bound culturally inferior un-worldwise dullard who never sets foot outside er... you get the picture.

Unfortunately there is some sad truth in the above.

Over the last year I haven't been away that much because I've been working 6-day weeks.

[Cue the violence (violins, surely?)...] Since April 2007 I ve had no more than 4 days off in any one stretch from work. Yes, I'm a little excited - I hope you can see just why.

Bla bla bla... work schmork.

So in Terminal 3 at Heathrow I spot the gayest thing I have ever seen in my life.

(I thought that the gayest thing in the world was your pink sweater...? Okay, you're right - but this is the gayest thing in the whole of Heathrow's Terminal 3.)

Check it out bitches...



Vodka and disco rolled into one. And there's a catch on the bottle top so that when it's empty you can hang it from the ceiling.

I am SO seriously resisting the temptation so badly.

While sitting here killing time, I have been doing some homework.

We fly on an Airbus A340-600 which looks a little like this...

I am in 18A which is this seat which is bloody marvellous...

(God knows why this bloody picture worked!? Did I tell you that I hate Blogger?)

For now though, would you excuse me? I have a plane to go and catch.

See you 10,000 miles away, in Cape Town!

Don't lose your head

(In 24-hours I will be on a plane to Cape Town, incase you didn't know. Huh? Well, where have you been, I've been droning on about it for fucking eons?!)

Anyway.

Packing is the most mundane and boring thing in the world so I start two days in advance so while doing it, I can do other things like watch TV / go to gym / shop.

While picking out clothes to take, I found the worst piece of clothing in my wardrobe.

I'd forgotten that I had it because it was hidden in the bottom of a box.

It happened a few years ago - I was walking past the Pringle Shop on Bond Street and I saw this jersey in the window and I just had to have it, fuck knows why.

It's Scottish cashmere for god's sake, it cost a whack and it's pink. Very fucking pink.

I do not know what I was thinking when I bought it. It's too big and you can't understand how pink it is.

It's luminous pink and actually looks very cool with a black shirt but I am too scared to wear it out the front door because it's so loud. It's a jersey that screams "Look At Me Now!"

Anyway - moving on.

So I tried to go out shopping on Sunday but there were too many people so I ran away back home.

This morning I tried ventured out again...

The first thing I had to do was go and say good-bye to my boyfriend. Well, he is my boyfriend except that he just doesn't know it yet.

There is also the issue that he's more-than-likely straight but who cares.

He has dark hair, is quite short and has a tattoo on his upper left hand. And he is the most hottest, most muscular guy in the whole of London. I love him.

If you live in London and are in the area - please go and look after him. He works in the in a supplement shop at Bond Street Tube Station between the Starbucks and the Pret.

I am getting very good at doing this and managed to snap of picture of his hotness.

After saying good-bye to him (I still haven't thought up a name for him...) I went to the Nike Shop.

Now can I ask you something?

So is it really bad to be sexually attracted to a mannequin in a shop?

Check out the definition under that shirt. The pecs, the arms and those legs. Hello! I find this plastic model very sexy actually.

"He" has the kind of body I want. Not too muscular but just all-over beautiful. And obviously with a head.

I find myself getting jealous of the white plaster cast model so I leave NikeTown.

Again, if you're in the area go and visit him, he's a lot sexier in the flesh. No really, you'll see. (He's on the second floor...)

Further down Oxford Street I go into the HMV where KT Tunstall and Billy Bragg are going to perform. Since I don't know any of KT Tunstall's songs and don't know who Billy Bragg is, I leave.

Moving on...

...To the discount sports shop which is fucking marvellous. In there I buy some vests and two pairs of shoes which comes to around £60 ($120)!

So check out my cool / cheap-ass street-wise clothing for the gym in South Africa.

(Please note that I would not wear these to the gym in London because I have a reputation (what the fuck?) but in Cape Town, where nobody knows me, I don't give a fuck.)

Check this gold-lettered top for hardness. It looks especially fierce with the black straps.

Actually, I'm not sure if it's total fierceness or just a little gay.

Disappointingly though is that I have been doing arms like mad and they don't look as bulky in the picture as they are in real life. I think they nearly overtake my chest when it comes to Best Feature.

Anyway, after all this fucking about for the whole day, this is all I've managed to pack...

Anyway, I'm going to the gym now.

I will pack later. Or whatever.