Moving on

So tomorrow's April and on the way home on the Tube I was thinking that maybe I should announce that I am actually a woman.

Or that I've been pissing you around and that this is actually my photo...

But then I realise that April Fool's jokes are so over-rated and tried so there will be no silly pranks.

Please, if someone does one to you tomorrow, you have to roll your eyes.

Speaking of the Tube - do you know, it's a fucking rich seam to mine.

Do we all know who this is on the left?

Yes, it's Donald Rumsfeld on the right and on the left is Hamid Karzai the president of Afghanistan.

Well knock me down with a feather. Check who I spot on the Jubilee Line between Baker Street and Bond Street!

It's the goddam Afghan president man!

Okay. Fuck it, lame joke.

Moving on...

Blogs are funny things. Seriously.

We're all connected in this shit-hole that is life. We're all connected whether you like it or not.

Firstly...

Here's a picture of Juan's lunch.

Even though I run away from carbs like Nicole Kidman runs away from Tom Cruise, I will say that Juan, your bread looks pretty tasty.

Like it has carraway seeds in it or something.

Next we have PT who mails with a picture of his ride in London. It's a dark blue Audi convertible.

It's similar to my Audi except mine is black. And it's a much later model.

So it's not really like this at all actually. No we're not clutching at spanners because next the following arrives.

Remember yesterday I was telling you about my shitty job at this broadcaster where I was paid crap money and ended up crying in the toilets most of the time? And when I wasn't doing that I would be drinking myself to black out. Remember?

Well, this arrives...

"Hey Bobby,

Your last post really struck a chord with me.

I am currently working for exactly the same media giant in Isleworth and have been for six years, it's slowly killing me, i've got to dig my tunnel faster, sometimes I wonder if I am ever going to escape from the Death Star, so it's great to hear a positive story from someone who escaped!

In actual fact it's hard to think of a more bleak and dismal experiance than working for said company in Isleworth, which truly is a shit hole, during a British winter. No wonder you were miserable, I sometimes wonder if this is all that life has to give."

Firstly it's kinda weird that someone worked at the same place as I did. Hey, maybe they're sitting at my old desk?

There is no name to this comment so I wanted to say it now...

To whoever you are - I so feel your pain. I don't know if you drive into work but I remember getting off the Piccadilly Line at Osterley every morning and just feeling this wave of depression wash over me.

Walking down Grant Way and into those fucking warehouses was like having my soul sucked out of my body.

I could no longer do it and I left. It's as easy as that. If you really want to leave you will.

Don't be scared. Yes, things may be comfortable. Yes, you get free satellite but there's more to life than being stuck in a warehouse in TW7.

I was there mate. I was so there. And I escaped and I have never looked back.

Start putting out feelers. Don't be afraid. Contact the opposition. When I first wrote to the _ _ _, I was told all they could offer me was one shift a week.

I grabbed it and within a month I was telling the rota person to stop calling me because I was over-burdened with work.

I don't know what it is that you do but those prefab buildings with the stinky carpets and ageing pictures on the wall is a great place to learn. But you can't stay there.

Tomorrow when you're standing in that canteen queue buying those ridiculous plastic coffee saches, think to yourself "Bobby was stood in here and he did something about it... now so must I."

Things will not happen overnight but in a few months maybe you're sat in White City or Horseferry Road or where-ever. You will look back on your time in Isleworth and wonder how you ever survived.

Remember these words as Esther said...

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

I not afraid of what I'll face but I'm afraid to stay."
Mate, get ready to jump and don't ever look back.

Let me know how things go.

Summer starts here

So here's the thing...

I was born in Zimbabwe and I grew up partly in the UK and partly South Africa.

When I look back, spending time as a kid in South Africa always seemed better than in the UK.

And again today I was reminded why.

I think the place where you spend the first few years of your life really kinda builds your DNA.

What I'm saying is, is that the sun is shining in London, it's just 15C but I am in such a fucken good mood.

The clocks went back last night which means we're in British Summer Time.

I'll repeat that word: Summer. Summer. Summer. Sun, summer, hot sunny, summer.

Woo hoo! Seriously. Wooo-fucking-hoo!

This morning I took pilgrimage to the Tesco with my top down. No, I wasn't driving half naked... I mean I put the top down. For the first time this year - and on the first day of British SUMMER Time.

This is summer in three easy steps...

Make sure you're comfortably sat. Please note my lip expression which is; "I am trying so desperately hard not to grin because if I show any emotion at this point I will scream with delight at the top of my lungs."

This is summer in 3 easy steps, number 2. It's getting hot in here - so take off all your clothes.

Step number three is complete and we're in the open air, off to the Tesco to shop.

The nearest Tesco store to me is a huge 24-hour job just off the North Circular - a massive ring-road that surrounds Inner London.

You get onto the North Circular with the top down and turn the tunes up as loud as they will go.

The tune is Madonna & Justin - 4 minutes. This song is built for screaming down the highway with the roof down.

Pushing down the accelerator you're illegally over the speed limit, the tunes are blasting with the sun on your back.

I am SO Paris Hilton driving to Venice Beach for lunch with her BH bitches.

Except I'm actually Bobby, on the cold A406 driving to the supermarket. But who cares.

Whatever. All I care about is that summer's coming. Summer. is. coming.

Woop! Woop!

I think I have the sun built into my DNA. I cannot survive without it.

The first time we go out with our top down is always cause for celebration. I am resisting the temptation to dance around the lounge screaming.

Summer's coming bitches. Tick, tock.... tick, tock....

(I'm really sorry if you're in the summer hemisphere, heading for winter. At least you don't have to endure London winters so while we're gloating you can just shut up. And besides, it says it's 29C in Sydney and 33C in Cape Town. It's 15C in London. I know we're clutching at spanners by declaring that it's summer so shh! Work with me...)

Past out

I was driving through Ealing (a London suburb) last night and it reminded me of what I was like nearly five years ago.

When I look back, I don't even know who that person was. Who was I?

I was in the worst job with a satellite broadcaster who're based in Isleworth. Think dishes on outside walls, yeah?

I was living with friends but it was a long way from my new job so I moved to be closer to work as it was shift-work and public transport was a problem.

Stupidly, I took the first flatshare I looked at because - god knows why. What the fuck was I thinking?

I have drawn a picture of my bedroom which was allegedly a double room...

All of the red crash marks indicate just what it was like. The blue thing is the window.

You couldn't open the cupboard doors because they bashed against the bed. The door bashed against the bed and you could barely fit between the chest of drawers and the door.

It was tiny.

I moved in on October 15th 2003 and moved out again in February 2004 so I was there during the winter.

Dark, cold rainy nights stuck in that prison cell-sized bedroom.

I was sharing with a 30-something guy called Paul (that was his real name). He was a Caffè Nero branch manager at Heathrow.

He was my height, orange-haired and overweight. His boyfriend was this young, reed-thin and spotty Romanian who worked in a noddle bar in Soho.

Paul was one of these gays whose idea of high culture was a Kylie boxset. We had absolutely nothing in common.

On evenings when I wasn't working, I would be lying on my bed listening to music on my Walkman and reading magazines.

This while Paul and his Romanian would be watching endless trashy soaps on TV.

I had only been in the UK for about 9 months so I had few friends. It meant I was lonely, depressed and bored and the one emotion just fed the other.

There is only one thing that cures an evening like that and it's alcohol.

If I wasn't working I would usually buy a bottle of Jacob's Creek Shiraz and four tins of Strongbow cider.

I would then sit in my bedroom and proceed to polish off the lot - usually to help me pass out.

It was the same most nights, a bottle of red then four tins of cider.

In the morning I would get up feeling like shit, stumble to Northfields Tube station in the rain / sleet / snow and get to work where I would get shouted it (everyone did).

There wasn't a day where I didn't either cry in the toilet or, at least, wandered what the fuck I was doing.

Come the weekend me, Paul and the Romanian would go to West 5, a tiny gay club in Ealing. I would drink far too much, fall around and then stumble home.

It was dark, cold, horrible, lonely and depressing.

Because I was paid shit money, towards the end of the month I would have to scrape together coins. It was always booze that won the battle.

Food makes you full but alcohol makes you drunk. I remember so well, walking to the same off-licence every night with a bunch of coins to buy the wine or Strongbow.

Then, back in my bedroom, I would polish off the lot until I blacked out for the evening.

All those memories came back to me, while driving through Ealing.

If you had stopped me then, stumbling on my way with my pocket of coins to buy booze, and said "Bobby, in five years' time you will be driving down this road in your black Audi convertible, going home to your flat in a rather posh area of North London where protein shakes have replaced alcohol and there are no longer empty wine bottles in the sock drawer" I dunno what I would have thought.

I don't think I wouldn't have not believed you - I just think I couldn't comprehend how low I'd sunk. I knew I was in a shit place, I just didn't realise how bad it was.

Thank God and all the others who helped me.

I could get all philosophical about life and changing and shit but you know if you've been in that situation yourself. You just look back on it and think "who the fuck was I and what the fuck was I thinking."

It made me into who I am now so I don't regret it at all. I guess I should, in a perverse way, be thankful for it.

But thank fuck it's past, never to return.

Fasten your buckle

Back in London. Fucked. Not drunk but fucked.

Was up at 5am. The driver has just dropped me off now. That by my count is a 19-hour day. On days like this all I think about is the overtime slip in my salary statement.

Fuckers. No gym for two days at least. I will panic about this tomorrow after lunch.

On the plane back (just me, bored) wandered if tossing one off in the loo means you're able to join the Mile High Club?

Have you ever tried to wank in the toilets onboard an airplane? Don't bother. You can't.

By my guesstimation, it's probably the least sexy place in the entire world. I bet they design them to be like that. Noisy, cold with an unflattering mirror.

Have decided I need to put that on my list of "things to have accomplished in life."

Though what constitutes joining the Mile High Cub?

I have set the bar at "a blow job."

This is based on the same principle applied to alcohol. That is, one in the air = two on the ground.

I.e. a blow job in the air is twice as filthy. Therefore in the air it equals full-on interaction. Advice /experience in this is issue would be greatly welcome. Obviously.

I can see this developing into a full-scale operation. Not getting laid in the sky but a full-on blog post.

Can I can barely keep my eyes open.

Instead I will go to bed.

Lying there is a whole lot nicer than standing in some cold cubicle with your pants around your ankles trying to rouse yourself while staring at a sign that says "personal sanitary disposal."

Actually. Speaking of which...

In a food commercial, do you know how they get the food to steam in order to make it look hot and scrumptious?

You take a tampon, dip it in water, stick it in the microwave for three minutes and then hide it behind whatever it is you want the steam to rise from.

If you were imagining me lying in bed with my aussieBums around my ankles wanking, I bet that's brought you to earth with a thump.

Mwhaha...

I'm rambling now so I'm going to go.

I've been sitting on my and and it's gone numb. Great - it's going to feel like someone else is doing it to me tonight.

Seeya!

Indulge me not

So I got send a picture of a pretty ferosh chicken dinner and we all agreed it looked pretty tasty...

My passing remark has meant a load of pictures pinging into my inbox.

And when they do, they're like little presents when they arrive, I tell ya!

So first up here's Bill's breakfast, a calorie-controlled Atkins extravaganza.

Along with the scrambled egg and salad is copious amounts of water which is presumably in a glass off-stage.

I love it. This is more exciting than photos of the inside of your fridge!

This next picture comes from David...

Now, I'd like to think that David has a sense of humour but I'm pretty sure he's being serious.

Breakfast = a tin of tuna, an egg + one strawberry. Can we all agree that this boy has his head screwed on the right way?

I know a calorie-controlled food extremist when I see one and those are the hallmarks. David, this is brilliant.

And then finally I get sent this...

So I guess this counts as "dinner" too...

Tim, yes, I can see why you're so confident.

I love having this picture up, not for what's in it but simply because it just completely lowers the tone.

And let's be honest - none of us are pretty far from the gutter anyway.

Of course if anyone else would like to get even smuttier, remember I'm just one click away: bobby.vanquish@gmail.com

And then to you - who sent me an e-mail from the shadows. I really wasn't expecting the response I got and I am so grateful but also - er, flattered isn't really the word.

You have had the same problems as me - problems with weight, with drinking too much and I am so glad to have had someone to share them with. Even if maybe the 'traffic' has, in a sense, been one-way.

Thank you.

So yesterday I mentioned that I was in the gym and - well...

I finished the work-out, swam 30 lengths and then hit the showers.

So I'm standing there in my swimming costume, soaping down and I turn around.

I can't describe the look but you know it when you see it.

It's a kind of lingering crotch stare and usually the guy then automatically grabs his willy.

I am partly ashamed to say that my experience of this is vast - though I have to preface that by saying it's by default.

No I don't wank in the gym showers but I have seen it enough to know... Going to the gym five days out of seven, the odds are massively enhanced.

Uncut guys are the worst because they have the equipment to play with. They roll it back and soap it up and roll it forward and rinse and repeat. Over and over and over...!

So I look up, still in my swimming costume and there are two guys, stood in cubicles side-by-side and they both give me The Look.

I seriously don't think the one knew what the other was doing.

And then out comes their soap. Froth, froth, froth... and the next time you turn around, hey presto! There are two great big boners sticking out from the bubbles.

I just thought to myself "don't react Bobby, don't react."

Luckily I was still in my Speedo which held me all together so there was no danger of nature taking over.

So I stood with my back to the shower wall, grabbed the Adidas Body Wash and lathered myself up.

And I made a point of deliberately washing my pecs, soaping my stomach and pulling open the speedo to let the water from my stomach trickle in.

The one on the left, who was actually vaguely hot was nearly stood completely north.

The other guy, a short Asian chap, and half wanking himself off.

I felt like the filthiest tease. The bitch who wouldn't play.

And there I was stood, thinking "Bobby... don't even react - just carry on soaping and for fucks' sake crotch - don't even move."

Having had enough I turned around, my back now facing them, rinsed off the rest of the soap and stopped the shower.

Pulling off the Speedo, thankfully things were all still pretty compact from the pool.

I quickly towelled myself, as they both kept turning around and back again, both with raging hard-ons.

Wrapping the towel around me, I wrung out the Speedo, grabbed the bodywash and protein shake bottle.

Catching one of their eyes I shook my head, half smiled but tutted.

Leaving now, they both looked absolutely crest-fallen.

Back in the changeroom, about two minutes later they emerge. I'm half dressed.

It would have been so easy to have pulled my Speedo off, got a semi and wanked back at them.

Instead I stopped myself completely.

I went home thinking "I feel so much sexier walking away with my dignity intact."

It's a really great feeling to see someone get turned on by looking at you. For me, it's a new feeling.

Sometimes the guiltiest pleasure is the one where you don't even indulge.

Poor fuckers, though I'm pretty sure it gave them something to wank over that evening.

I know it did for me.

Doormats and dashboards

It says that this is the 200th post on this blog. It means I have lumbered up to entertain / amuse and infuriate you about 200 times.

Sometimes I think that it's a wonder that there's anyone still here!

Now listen - can I ask you a favour?

Over the last three days I've written a whole bunch of stuff about a load of crap and at least six people have e-mailed me in response, who I never even knew read this thing.

But I know there are a whole lot more of you. So here's what I would really like you to do.

Please could you just send me an e-mail with your name, age and where in the world you are. That's all.

I would really love you to do this, especially if you've never left a comment or sent me an e-mail before.

This is like the part in the show when the person on the stage asks the lighting person to turn up the house lights.

Except I don't want to make a fool of ya.

I just want to know what your name is, your age and where in the world you are.

It's so that I can put a name to a stat. Or something.

Please email: bobby.vanquish@gmail.com. I would really appreciate it.

(And I promise it's just me for and nobody else so please don't be shy. I just want you to say hi.)

Now speaking of interactivity and all that stuff, yesterday I was moaning about how I wanted to be normal and eat roast chicken and mash and this morning I got the most exciting e-mail from someone who's cooked a roast chicken for me to enjoy. Virtually...

This is the funniest / coolest / weirdest picture I've been sent in a while.

It's weird to think that you're sitting, in a place where I have never even been before, reading these words. Seeing exactly what I am seeing.

I love it. And I think the chicken looks really fucking good. So thanks for the pic, it brightened my day. (Nice Mac too...!)

Actually, there's another hint. If you wanna take pictures of your food with my blog in the background - please feel free to do so. Mail them to the above address please.

Naked pictures are also encouraged. Obviously.

Speaking of pictures, sometimes people in London have no shame.

Take, for example this photo I managed to snap of this woman's book on the Tube this morning.

I have tried to fiddle around with the picture in PhotoShop to try and show you what the chapter is called but it doesn't work.

Basically the name of the book was Assertiveness For Women and she was reading the chapter entitled "He Treats Me Like A Doormat". !!!

Uh!?

I mean, there's a time and a place for everything you know...

Anyway, speaking of unusual things... check this, which I spotted in a van in the parking lot outside the gym.

What a fucking pigsty.

That's just the dashboard. Can you imagine what their bedroom must be like!? Or how filthy their underwear must be. Urgh... yucky yucky.

We can see a juice bottle, some newspaper, plastic bags, a soap (!) and what looks like a false tit.

Lordy lord... anyway, so that's Post no. 200.

Tomorrow we'll get resume a normal service. Perhaps I should tell you about how I found myself in the gym showers tonight with two guys in the opposite stalls wanking at me.

Did I? Didn't I?

That's tomorrow bitches...

So thanks

The weird thing is that you don't really know who I am.

You may think you do, but you don't. And I guess I don't really know you either.

I have this silly page and I write stuff and some of it is a little self indulged and other times maybe it's a little crap.

Occasionally though, I wrote something and it connects with you , it doesn't happen often, but it's then that I see the point to all of this.

I wrote that missive about wishing I was normal and thanks for the comments. But before they arrived I got three e-mails that I wanted to share.

The first one comes from someone anonymous but who lives in London.

"hey bobby
i read ur blog and don't put comments but I wanted to write after what you wrote today.
please don't put this on ur blog cos I am 24 in London and I..."

So that's where I should end it but, let's call him Aaron. Aaron goes on for 3,000 words (jeez Louise!) about how he too is unhappy about his weight and what he thinks he looks like etc.

I wrote back to him, and I said I would say this on here but Aaron...

Put the chocolate down. Just kidding!

No, just do it now.

There will be times when you're sitting in the gym change-room alone, with your head in your hands and you may cry a little in despair but know that in the end you will feel so much better.

Know that I have been there and I have sat on alone on that bench too, but I did it.

Looking good naked is not the be-all and end-all but it helps.

And one-day someone will say to you "you have a great body" and don't be smug or arrogant but just say thanks and smile. And your mind's eye, give them a big hug and say another thank you. And think to yourself "if you only knew half the story!"

Then I get a second e-mail which begins "don't want to put this in the public posts" but I hope he'll forgive me for doing some cutting and pasting.

"I just have lived through exactly what you are now.  But I did it in another city 15 years earlier.

I'm older than you and there is still a lot colliding inside.  It's what makes life....whatever you make it.

This e-mail makes me realise that there was someone sat on that bench before I got there. Sitting there too with their head in their hands.

And the baton just gets passed and all the shit from one generation transfers to the next. And perhaps there is no normal ever.

It's all just fucked but at least amongst all this crap we can feel a bit better knowing there's someone out there who's feeling the same thing too.

There are others who did too and they got through it all okay.

What I mean is, I know this is just a silly blog but there are times when you've helped me (whoever you are) and there are times when maybe I've written something that has helped you too. So thanks.

And cos I'm feeling soppy I am going to quote Celine Cuisine:

Everywhere I go, all the places that I’ve been
Every smile's a new horizon on a land I’ve never seen
There are people around the world -
Different faces different names
But there's one true emotion that
reminds me we're the same...
And the third e-mail?

It just says "your'e not pathetic bobby. i reckon you're fucking awesome."

Yeah - same to you. All of you.

x

Just make me normal

Yesterday we went to some (gastro)pub in Primrose Hill for a friend's birthday lunch.

I drove there which is a great way to get out of drinking.

At the restaurant I had sparkling water plus orange and diet lemonade.

On the menu I had the fish because it had no sauce and it had no potato.

Afterwards the six of us sat and had beers, except I drank more orange & diet lemonade.

And behind us were a group of guys, sitting drinking beer. And one of them turned around to talk to Hayley and the next thing, our groups had merged.

This really good looking guy from their group called John, spoke really well and had a very handsome face. He started talking to me.

There was a laugh and he touched my leg and I looked into his eyes (that look) and then we talked about his job in advertising and he's funny and sweet and genuine and ...

All I kept thinking was "hmm... he's very good looking but I dunno about his build. A bit of a stomach. Drinks too much beer."

And so when it came time to go, instead of me maybe saying something like "hey, would be nice to get together sometime again" I, in complete sobriety think, "yeah - he's sweet - we'll go out on a few dates, maybe get together but it won't last because, from the neck down he isn't rocking my socks off."

So we shake hands, he walks out with his mates in the opposite direction and we both do the turn-around-glance.

Now, if I was a normal person this is what would have happened:

We would have gotten a cab to the pub
I would have drank.
I would have eaten what I wanted (roast chicken and mash)
I wouldn't have sat the whole time thinking "I wonder what time the gym closes - maybe I'll be able to fit an hour in later."
I would have talked to John and swapped numbers with him, because he was very good looking and genuinely nice (stomach included).
Once home I would have joined the others for a few more drinks and that would be that.

Nicey-normal.

Instead I get home and think "oh fuck, I'm feeling fat, I can't go out to the club now." I even went and bought a new white vest because the theme was white / milk etc.

So I'm sat in my room and downstairs everyone is laughing and drinking.

And I do a few push-ups and sit-ups and then I just think that I am far too fat for the party so I SMS Grant to say I'm not going.

He sends the standard response "you always say this - see you outside at 12.30."

I then find some leftover ****, do some and then write some embarrassingly depressing dirge on my blog and go downstairs to join the others.

All the time thinking, "if only I was normal... I would be having fun right now. Or about to..."

Sleazy does it

So Alex is a girl, who I used to work with but became friends with, and sometimes she says "please come out with us" and nearly most of the time I decline, blaming work / fatigue / a bleeding foot etc.

Except last night I had no excuses so I decided to go.

It's curious going out with the Alex circle because you get to see a really different side of London.

We nickname Alex's boyfriend Daddy Warbucks.

He drives a supercharged Range Rover with shiny wheels but no he's not Lebanese.

So we head for the club which is somewhere in St James.

I should be clear as to where it is but although I've said I will not drink, I have instead resorted to er, something else.

I need to go back to where we were to find out the name because it feels like a dream.

I remember there being a yellow Lamborghini parked outside the club, us getting out of the 4x4 and being ushered in, ahead of the queue.

Inside there were girls in really skimpy dresses with tiny little glittery handbags.

And thank god Chris is there. He is also one of Alex's friends.

Chris is another gay and we get on really well and he's quite fit and every time we meet we end up groping each other's pecs and we always do the "haha... we should meet up sometime (get together and fuck)" but we never do.

So we were sat in this kind of roped off section and we talked and the music was quite loud and I remember dancing a bit and Chris and I look really gay because we're the only two guys on the dancefloor.

And I noticed that, do you know - straight women are just as fucking predatory as gay men.

This women in a silvery dress was really giving me the fucking eye-up, but like big time. Every time I looked up, I caught her eye.

So back in the roped off area Warbucks is sitting with Alex on one side and this other girl on the other. Actually, there were just girls everywhere.

I spoke to Warbucks for a time, at one point complimenting him on his watch, he sounding slightly desperate to make his response sound throwaway / casual.

"It's a Breitling - silly thing set me back about thirty thousand."

Anyway, so these guys kinda come up and circle around as the girls sit and sip their champagne.

One of girls sat near Alex is apparently a model except she's really short so I realise that they mean a "model."

I really wanted to talk to her but then I thought maybe I shouldn't. So I left it.

Next to us in the seated area there are apparently two premiership footballers which means nothing to me. Who?

And there were these two Indian guys, standing near our roped off area, one in like a brown suit and the other wearing a shiny blue tight T-shirt with so much fucking gold on - and then these girls appear and just drape themselves on these guys.

There's a bucket with like Krug in it on a table near them and these guys pour the girls some champagne and the girls literally fuck the flutes with their tongues.

Either these Indian gents are call centre workers at Carphone Warehouse or they have a Ferrari parked outside that daddy bought.

The only guys in the whole place, who I thought were attractive, were the barmen.

There were men in tuxedos standing around with ear-pieces in, bottles of champagne on ice that probably cost upwards of £250 a bottle and women in shiny dresses that looked like underwear.

And all it is, is an upscale meat market. Oh my god it was so sleazy.

It was a mixture of desperados, designer clothing and drugs with a whole load of money thrown in.

I remember being in Action (old muscley gay London disco) one evening where one of the strippers wanked off and it didn't feel as sleazy as the atmosphere last night.

Vacuous women, plastered with make-up and desperate to find a rich guy. And all of the guys with shirts that are far too unbuttoned, beer-bellies and false tan.

Well, I've done it now and don't have to again for another year.

It feels like I've had a really seedy night out and I never even ended up at a bathhouse. Urgh.

The only good thing is that, I went out with £40, my bank card, mobile phone and front door key.

When I looked in my pockets I find roughly the same thing.

Caring for the environment

Urgh.

So look who I spot in the Sainsbury's this afternoon.

It's Them, doing a little shoppy-woppy.

They didn't recognise me because I did an about-turn as soon as I saw Them.

Though naturally I still stalked Them around the cold meat and poultry aisle, of course.

Here we see one of Them lunging for the discount chicken. So sensible.

The one in the fleece is Tommy, who I'd not seen before and I have to admit that he is quite attractive.

Well, attractive if you like ordinary clean-cut types in sensible clothing. Check out the sensible fleece he's wearing.

I'm going to use the word sensible over and over because that's what they are. Sensible, careful, dull.

And look at the sensible re-usable Sainsbury's bag on the back of the trolley. Who the fuck ever uses that silly hook on the back of the trolley?

Only sensible people.

And as for those ridiculous reusable bags - like not using ten plastic bags is going to help the environment and save the fucking polar bears.

So by night they sit, like stunned mullets, in front of Catherine Tate and during the day they hang out in the Whole Chicken section at the local supermarket.

....
And that's where this post ends because I can't be bothered with any more of their sensible-ness.

But you're welcome to finish it off. Please leave a comment or send me an e-mail with how you think this post should end and I will post the best one.

So you get the chance to write my blog. This is an offer you cannot (or I won't let you) turn down.

Under the covers

It's the start of the Easter Weekend and I have no doubt that pubs and nightclubs across London are positively fucking heaving.

And me?

Well, I'm in Heaven.

No, not under the arches but under the covers!

This is my ideal night in because I'm feeling tired and I suspect that a cold is coming on.

So, as you know, I am allergic to British weather so this is me in bed watching this...

Yes, in the first picture I have a beany on. And the heating is turned up to 32C.

I fucking hate cold weather.

And my pyjamas are that mankey old jersey with an M&S cotton T-shirt underneath and then for the bottoms I have long trousery-thingys with socks on, tucked into the bottom of the long-john legs.

The only skin ever showing when I sleep is my face.

And even then, with the heating turned way up, I still get cold.

I have been lying here since about 8.30pm. It's fucking marvellous.

And then, as your eyelids get heavy you sink back, lean over to turn off the light and fall asleep. It's my favourite favourite.

So that's the sum total of what I've been able to write. I'm crap, I know...

Yes - don't worry!

I know that all you care about is what They are up to...

Are They doing anything interesting? Are they fuck.

Another evening and more fucking Catherine Tate.

I reckon They have that rubbish on while they're actually sitting and cruising the BB Chem Pig Fist-Fuck messageboards.

Jamie and Tommy

I've cried in a bathhouse jacuzzi, spend weeks alone in bed with a bottle of Jack Daniels and experienced love but lost it and all you can say is "so tell me about your neighbours."

You are tempting yourself for disappointment here, I promise.

So the landlord was around on Monday morning because The Neighbours have decided they want Virgin Media.

Our landlord lives down the road and is quite hands-on (he's an artist and although he's married, my housemate - who's a girl - is convinced he's gay).

Anyway, so the landlord is here drilling holes so that The Neighbours can have their silly broadband / TV bollocks.

And as always, I like to provide photographic evidence so here is The Neighbours' new cable connection that runs above their front door...

So while he's drilling away I invite myself in for a chat.

And I am standing in their new flat; the holiest of holies.

Landlord says that the previous two - Lame Gay and Miserable Bitch - were so dirty that they left the kitchen like a Chinese takeaway.

Dirty bastards.

Anyway, so in The Neighbours' flat - ohmygod - it's so fucking boring and dull and clean and anodyne.

Okay, let's give them their names, which aren't their real names but their nicknames may be Jamie and Tommy, so I'm sure you can fucken work it out.

In their flat there is a rail of white shirts and cards in the window wishing them good luck in their new abode.

One of the cards has a naked man on the cover like you'd see in Prowler / Clone Zone. Oh god, I'm gonna puke.

I ran out because I just couldn't take it.

Apparently Jamie is a graphic designer and Tommy, well who knows. Maybe he's an accountant.

I met Jamie because he locked the latch on the Yale lock and he had the only key, so he had to come back and unlock it for me.

He is tall and dark with flaky bouffant hair. You could say to him, 'on Saturday night me and my mates went out and got ass-fucked in The Hoist and then we all licked each others' underpants' and he'd be like "whoopsie-daisy, well we went to a fabulous restaurant with the Old Boys' Union and talked about how our PE teacher quietly violated us as kids."

He is poofy, poshy English upper-class gay with dandruff hair and a bad fitting corduroy jacket. And not cool like Stephen Fry.

So because this is all you want to talk about, tonight I climbed out of the kitchen onto the roof.

From here can we see that the TV is off... (fucking trebles all round for discovering that!)

And then from this picture (me risking falling off the roof...) we can see their retro 70s chair with remote controls all nicely placed.

Underneath, there is a Jamie Oliver cookbook.

I haven't met Tommy yet - and to be fair - this is the one who my housemate said was worth shaking your willy at.

However, time will come.

Tommy is the one with the embroidered cushion on his bed - I didn't manage to get into his room when I gate-crashed the landlord.

Maybe Tommy's the hot and beautiful one. Maybe Jamie is just the constant bridesmaid.

Boring bastards. I may go and stalk them some more.

22:00 Edit
Just after finished this, I heard Tommy get home.

The only reason I know that it was him was because the light in his bedroom went on.

And right now, he's watching some woman scream her lungs out ITV2.

Gay, gay, gay...

Hello gorgeous!

So...

I guess that means that in 82 days' time I turn 30.

The big 3-0.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck...

I booked the ticket today. Cape Town, here we come (again).

Fuck. Fuck. I'm turning 30. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

The best thing about turning 30 is that this crisis at 29 is going to be over.

Where the fuck did my life go? Fuck.

Fuck. Oh, listen - don't get me wrong. I cannot fucking wait. Fuck.

(Jeez, there are more fucks in this post than a Vauxhall sauna.)

Having booked the ticket to coincide with my birthday means it really does now feel like I'm turning 30. It's no longer some arbitrary concept that I never thought would happen.

Fuck. It's coming, it's goddam coming. And fuck all the shit that's gone before.

No there's nothing at all
No, I have no regrets
Not the bad or the good I've been done
I don't care - it's all one
No there's nothing at all
No, I have no regrets
It's all paid, all forgot, swept away
I move on day by day.
Can I just say that I used this song as one of my anthems before La Vie En Rose came along. Thanks.

Okay, listen. Now, about the neighbours... do you mind if I tell you about them a little later? I think some champagne is in order. Fuck, I'm drinking again. Fuck.

Fuck. Maybe I should go to the gym because I wanna look fab for my 30th (holy fuck, I'm turning 30). Nah, fuck it. One day isn't going to hurt.

I know I'll regret this in the morning but fuckit.

Black square

I can't actually bring myself to speak about the neighbours.

When I have summoned up the courage I will tell you what they're like. I have met of them and I have found the other one's profile on Facebook.

I saw the first one on Monday evening while I was pretty zonked and I'm sure he must have thought to himself "hmm... it's like that guy is on drugs and stinks of booze...?!"

Which I was.

So about that. Yeah, I guess I do this because sometimes it allows me to get things off my chest that I wouldn't tell others.

"I felt like shit so I necked a bottle of Jack Daniels and painkillers and spent the day in my pyjamas" is something I just can't bothered to tell people in real life but on here I can.

There really are times when you just have to ask yourself "what would Liza do?"

So today, instead of mooching around at home watching Kath & Kim, Family Guy and old Hitchcock movies I decided to dag around with the pensioners on the Jubilee Line.

No, actually I went to get some culture in Central London.

So I stopped off at the Sainsbury's and had a yoghurt. Da dum.

What I really did though was very cultural because I went to the Royal Academy to go and see some Russian and French impressionist art.

Check out the beautiful Matisse which really is spectacular to look at but the best piece in the whole collection was this one below by Filipp Malyavin...

(Please note the extend and ease with which I am dropping these names, like I have a clue what I'm talking about!)

So it's something like, this painting was a rejection of everything beautiful and complex and artful and was basically just some nihilistic view of society bla bla. It was so profound to look at - just a black square.

It's called Black Square. It's a whole of nothing, just black, square on white. I thought it was brilliant.

And you just stand looking at it and you think what the fuck is this? And it is everything and it is nothing.

So after the excitement of finding some art I want to buy, I was back in the freezing fucking London air so I decided to run home but on the way I found the second most exciting thing today...

If you go to the M&S at Green Park Tube Station there is a miracle of convenience (well, if you're about to be a tourist...)

Inside the shop there is cash machine that doles out American dollars. Isn't that the coolest fucking thing in the world!?

Check it out, I drew $20 from a cash machine in the middle of London.

Fuck knows what I'm going to do with the money but it's new and beautiful.

If this is the most interesting thing I did all day then yes, you don't need to tell me. I need to get more.

After all the culture of Matisse and Cezanne, I reckon the best way to end the day is with Pornotube and a wank.

Bla bla

It's that old joke from Scent of a Woman.

John Daniels? When you've know him as long as I have, you can call him whatever the fuck you like.

On Saturday I did some stuff and then finally sat down and thought "what the fuck am I doing here..."

And I couldn't answer the question. And the more I thought about where I was the more depressed I got.

It's shit when you start asking yourself; "is this all my life is?"

So I ambled to the Sainsbury's and bought a litre of John Daniels and some Nurofen Plus and went to bed, listening to Pink Floyd.

And I woke up on Sunday morning and stumbled around a bit and had a beer and took some tablets and went back to bed.

Yeah, I'm depressed. I'm bored and just generally crap.

I dunno if it's this fucking atrocious weather or what. I can't even be bothered to finish this. Bla bla...

A normal service resumes shortly. I'm going to bed.

And as I type this Roger Waters sings:

Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky.

From Shine On You Crazy Diamond, Part IV.

Knocking on

After a truly shit day at work I got home at around 11pm. On a Friday night.

So the first thing I do is check who's awake and who isn't.

Downstairs the TV is turned off but the light is on in Neighbour No 1's room.

He is at home on a Friday night? Hmm... this is not good. Maybe he's oiling up before he goes out to get onto his podium.

With the last three days having been complete crap, I try to medicate with a bottle of Boschendal 2004 Shiraz but it doesn't work and after about half a glass I feel sick and throw the rest down the sink.

The rest of the glass, not the bottle!

Anyway... this morning I wake up with renewed vigour. Today the postman is coming so I may get the chance to learn at least one of New Neighbour's names.

Until then, as it's been suggested, maybe it's time I knocked on their door with a lame excuse to borrow something, aimed at checking them out in their natural habitat.

So I have come up with a few scenarios. For this I need your input.

Which do you think is the most credible?

Knock-on no. 1
"Hello, I was just upstairs working out and I wondered if you wouldn't mind coming upstairs to adjust my dumbbells for me?
I know it's only 4kgs but it's not what you have but how you work it. Thanks"

Knock-on no. 2
I was walking home from the office and this bastard in a 4x4 splashed me and as you can see, my suit is now falling off. Do you have a cotton and thread I could borrow? Whoops! There go the trousers... Thanks."
(I don't what my stomach is doing with that odd fold...?!)

Knock-one no. 3
"I was just about to put my buns in the oven when I realised that I didn't have any self-raising flour, would you like to come upstairs and lick out the bowl? Thanks."

Knock-one no. 4
"Lord! I am in the hurry to work and I just realised I have run out of clean aussieBums. Do you have any I could borrow? Wanna fuck?
Thanks."

So those are the four scenarios I have come up with. I think they are pretty credible.

Shit, I gotta go. I think I hear a movement downstairs.

There goes the neighbourhood

Big news bitches, the biggest news ever.

The house in which I live is split into two. We occupy the top three floors and the flat at the bottom occupies the bottom floor.

Previously there were two people living in the flat at the bottom, one gay guy and one straight girl.

The gay guy was the squarest gay I've ever met.

One Friday evening we were having a party and I happened upon him rolling into his flat drunk, so I dragged him up to our party.

Things got way out of hand and at around 5am we were all sitting on the floor laughing and drinking around the lounge table.

He kept saying "I've never done that before, I don't think I should" until I pushed his head onto the glass table and went "oh, for fucks' sake, stop complaining and just _____."

I officially hold the dubious honour of corrupting the poor bastard. Whatever.

His housemate, however, was even worse. She was, well... I don't remember her name because we just used to call her Miserable Bitch.

But they couldn't afford the rent so they left. Good.

While I was away last weekend two new boys moved in. My housemate has met them and she says that she is sure they are gays.

And in her words "they're our age and definitely worth a squirt."

This is the MOST exciting news I have had in the last hour. This is big.

Of course what happens when two apparently hot poofs move in, in the flat below?

Yes bitches... you stalk.

I haven't found a letter addressed to either one of them so I don't know their names to see if they're on Facebook. Yet.

But I did climb onto the toilet and squeeze my head out of the guest loo window, from where you can see into their skylight.

Here we can see that they're watching Catherine Tate. Yes, they're gay.

One day, when I lean out of that window and see porn on the TV, I'm buying us all champagne.

Then, from the balcony off our kitchen you can see into one of their bedrooms.

In this bedroom we can see a white duvet, a leather bag on the bed and some sort of embroidered cushion with what appears to be a coat of arms on it. Ralph Lauren maybe?

With my luck, they're going to turn out to be square, dull, vacuous, boring gays who drink beer at the Duke of Wellington in Soho and when they do go out, go to somewhere like the Royal Vauxhall Tavern to watch some big fat woman make jokes about her poo-nana.

You watch.

If there is any fucken justice in the world they will turn out to be these two guys...

Come on fate, I'm tempting you. What have you moved in underneath us?

I know I'm setting myself up for a disappointment.

Why is it that everyone else has the hot neighbours and we never do?

Just for once in this life, can't they be gogo boys with sparkling personalities who enjoy a good book and casual sex. Please.

The end of the beginning

At the information counter in Terminal 3 was stood a woman holding a board. On it was work's big 3-letter logo and my name underneath.

That's the moment that the game was finally up.

Sitting in the car on the M4 into West London it all just seemed liked a distant dream.

Chatting to Drew for the first time, picking up the guy at the gym, sailing to Clifton beach, getting drunk at gay pride.

I'm now at my desk. Someone came up to ask if I'd been away so I guess that means the tan is not as good as it could have been.

While waiting for the flight, having a drink with my parents my mum said; "Bobby, why do always come alone - don't you have a partner you'd like to bring?"

This is the first time in my life, at 29 years old that my mother has spoken so openly, in front of my dad, about me being gay, possibly having a boyfriend and wanting to meet him.

I had to tell her that, at the moment, there is no-one that special in my life.

But I assured her that I was not some lonely old spinster, on track to become unmarried and alone.

My dad said he hoped that I wasn't going to become a spinster, unless there was something else I wanted to tell them.

It was the best way to end things.

I guess my parents have come to terms with me - they must have done.

They have accepted that I'm not going to bring home a girl for my dad to meet. Or ask my dad for advice on marriage. Or share a joke with him about girls' boobs.

They must have been building up the courage for three weeks to ask me that question.

If I'm really honest, part of me is uncomfortable that all the issues and all the problems and all the shit that has haunted me for the last 10 years or more are all starting to disappear.

Oh please god, don't let me become balanced, happy and content.

Phobias, neuroses, loathings and anxieties... my dear friends, please don't abandon me now.

Hamba gahle

Firstly, I just wanna say that about two metres above my head, this thing is hanging...



If it fucking falls on me, I will scream the likes of which you may hear. Particularly if you live more than 5,000 miles from here.

So...

Tomorrow I get onto an airplane and fly back to London. It doesn't feel like it's been three weeks.

I guess I need to tie up a few loose ends and bring this whole thing to an end.

Holidays to Cape Town are a lot of emotion, issue-busting and alcohol. This will now be the fifth time I have been.

A lot of the things that have been percolating under the surface of my life, which I have now put to rest.

I came here to chop down shit and clear a path for me to aim for my 30s. I am ready for them come June, when I turn 30.

Five years ago I left South Africa with a warped sense of my own self, a naive view of the world and some money.

Today I go confidently, self-assured and with no money. God help me until Friday a.k.a. payday.

Anyway.

So here comes the part where I pack all my shit back into a box and prepare to head back home. This is the moment where everything turns from reality into a happy memory.

Remember Paul? He texted me on Saturday afternoon to see what I was doing / ask if I'd like to go around to his.

I texted back the following:

"Hey.
The time we spent together was great and thanks for the offer but I am not interested.
I fly back to the UK shortly so good luck and best wishes.
Bobby"

The other loose end I have to tie up ends slightly differently.

I thought about posting something on Sunday night but I just didn't feel it was right to. Not for the other guy's sake but for mine.

There's not much else I want to say on the topic and I am not going to go into any detail but Drew and I spent Saturday night together. You may remember Drew from here.

The story is as simple as it is complicated.

It wasn't planned but somewhere within me, I kinda knew it was going to happen.

When it becomes a memory I will exploit it and tell you everything. For now though, I'm just keeping it close.

I know that sounds so pansy-ish but that's where it is and that's where I want it to stay for a while.

And so this holiday comes to an end. I keep telling myself I have to leave to come back again.

My heart is a little heavy but then that's what happens when you're on holiday and everything is easy.

I am almost packed, ready to head back to the UK.

I really have had the time of my life.

To be or yacht to be

Dinner on Friday night is fun, made even more enjoyable by a young blonde muscular boy wearing a T-shirt with torn off sleaves.

It looked like he was having dinner with his mother and father.

Wakame in Green Point serves specialises in food from the Pacific rim (no bum jokes please). Apparently Pacific rim means seafood / sushi / asian-fusion food etc.

Saturday afternoons are the best time to go because that's when rich kids sit on the balcony sipping cocktails and watching the sea.

Anyway, have a look at these two boys sat below. Isn't it funny how it's always the same? Check out the arms on the guy in the vest on the right. And then check out his mate.

Where there's a bride there also has to be the bridesmaid.

So I'm there with Nicola, Anna and her boyfriend Anton. Of course sitting amongst spoilt rich kids is not the main reason to visit Wakame.

The lime and coriander calamari with hoison sauce is the real reason we're there. It's heaven in a bowl.

So we drink champagne and wine, cocktails and get drunk while chomping through calamari and sushi. And as usual, Anton, in his liquid state, decides that we all have to go out on the yacht on Sunday.

Which is what we do.

Sailing to Clifton, the mountain above is called Lion's Head.

It's tempting to stand there and sing "here, far, wherever you are.. I believe that the heart does go on..." Clifton 4th is to the left of the boulders in front.

Anton stands at the back burning the food in the braai (barbeque)

Gossip, gossip, drink, drink in the afternoon sun on the Atlantic, a quarter of a mile from Clifton beach.

Finally, here's the view sailing back into the Royal Cape Yacht Club.

And so another holiday in South Africa starts to come and an end.

I am ready to leave.

Full steam ahead

So god - I just - whatever.

I want to come home now. I am tired and exhausted and sunburnt and hungover and broken.

(Those two lines have taken about 40 minutes to type because I keep leaning back in the chair and staring into space.)

I went out for dinner on Friday night with some friends who I know from Uni.

Afterwards I was supposed to meet Ian and Andrew for more drinks but instead I decided to take a detour.

Reading this may inform your understanding of what happens next.

So yeah - I ended up there. On a Friday night, as I had done so many years ago.

I wasn't even "revved up" to want to go, I just thought fuck it. It felt a bit like going back to the scene of where you had a car accident just to stand there and be still.

I got to the change-room at about 1am, transformed into the white towel and entered the main arena.

Everything just the same as I remember it. Doors in the background slamming, men hanging around in white towels and trashy vocal house music playing.

Celine Dion singing "I drove all niiiiiight....." to drown out the sound of guys fucking.

I wandered around and became appalled at myself, that I used to engage with this environment.

Standing at the bar and reading a magazine some guy in his middle-40s offers me some CAT and the chance to fuck his boyfriend.

I shake my head and continue looking at the magazine.

There are private cabins, a sauna, jacuzzis and a large steam room. The view from the upstairs balcony is picturesque.

The "maze" downstairs where guys wander around in towels... where you hear slaps, yelps and guys moaning with their mouths full.

There is no nuance and no subtlety. There is just fucking. And maybe if you're lucky you'll get one in the arse and another in the mouth at the same time.

This is humanity at its finest, 1.30am

In the downstairs jacuzzi two guys are asleep.

The motor has turned off and the water is still, one of their towels lies in the damp.

I try very hard to resist the temptation to jump into the water and fuck one of the guys to wake him up.

The other thought is to push one of them under the water, to see how long before anybody notices the dead body floating. There is a gag about stiffs but I can't be bothered to make it.

Slumped in front of the TV are two elderly men, they too have fallen asleep.

The one has his mouth hanging open, the only movement comes from the light on the TV screen, as two young Eastern European boys fuck each other in the forest.

Obviously the film isn't that good because these two would have been awake otherwise. Maybe the plot was a little too complicated.

I decide I've had enough and I want out. This is not sexy and not somewhere I want to be. Me is bigger than this, standing around in a towel.

I'm back in the change-room putting on my underpants as a couple near me are removing theirs.

One of the guys comes over, grabs my crotch and says something like "you should not be leaving just yet..." His breath stinks of alcohol.

I remove his hand and shake my head. I realise that for the last 45 minutes I minutes I haven't uttered a single word.

You can come here, to this place, and get fucked. And then have a couple shove both their dicks in your mouth in the darkest corner of the maze and no-one will have said anything. Not even thank you.

By now the couple are in their towels. They're probably going to traipse around the place, one of them will get sucked off in the steam-room, the other will stick his mouth into some guys arse and afterwards they'll both fall asleep in front of the video showing group sex.

I get home and I'm not even amped enough to have a wank.

Instead I go to bed and hope that my soul will have returned to my body by the morning.