Somewhere in Theatreland

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

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

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

Opening night...
It's opening night!

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's the worst blog in town!

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

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

Bobby Vanquish has done it again!

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

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

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

What a cunt!

Hot gossip and other stuff

Fancy gossiping about someone you don't know?

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, so the gossip is about Jonathan.

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

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

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

He's married!

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

It fascinates me because he is a little weird too.

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

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

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

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

trautS arioM & tnemelC tS maP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then a silver chain appeared around his ankle.

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

And then he shaved his head.

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

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

Some of the tattoo is lined without being coloured in.

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

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

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

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

Down memory lane

Before Bobby Vanquish there was just Bobby. Me.

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

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

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

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

This entry comes from 25th August 2006.

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

Please forgive for I have SO sinned.

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

Er, never say never.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I cannot stop it.

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

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

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

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

I gulped and thought 'ohmyfuck'.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(This is like but NOT him...)

- - -

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

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

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

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

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

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

Season rendezvous

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

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

Of course today it's raining.

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

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

Soho Square around lunchtime in the sun.

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

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

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

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

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

I let him down gently.

At the gym I spot Rory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seeing that poster made me think.

So I did some remodelling...

It's lame and blunt, I know.

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah get your gun

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

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

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

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

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

To do this I dress as sloppily as possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

Whoops! Fuck.

Finally...

Here are three video grabs of me from Thursday.

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

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

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

The Hell

I'm in The Hell.

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

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

So what happens is, today I did some travelling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I hate myself, I really fucken hate myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a23798PT QEOPWTUG EPWFGUI wsef

fuck this shit.

An offer you can't refuse

Yeah, so that's a bit irritating.

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

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

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

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

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

What more could you want?

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

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

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

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

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

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

And!

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

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

This sounds like the perfect life to me.

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

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

First, look at the bedroom cupboard handles.

Aren't they nice?

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

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

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

Looking up

Who travelled on the Central Line this morning?

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

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

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

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

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

This confused me greatly.

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

It looks fine to me...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, okay - one last thing about the Tube.

Now I'm not paranoid but.

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, just one more thing about the Tube.

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

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

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

On the contrary, actually...

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

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

To the young ones

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought all architects would have their ultimate structure.

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

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

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

I didn't even bother to start unzipping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ride with me

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

And then today...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, whatever."

Ping!

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

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

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

Holy fuck.

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

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

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

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

Can I confess something?

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

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

Me no count chickens, eggs, hatch etc,

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

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

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

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

Life is sweet.

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

Throwing it all away

or "Sing while you purge!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pause for the jet..."

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

This is a piece of the wrapper.

Yes, it's binned and gone.

11.12
Song playing: Dark Road by Annie Lennox

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

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

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

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

11.33
Song playing: King & Queen of America - Eurythmics

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

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

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

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

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

My old Mr Video card and Standard Bank debit card.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's The Telegraph:

And The Guardian:

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

So where were you when...?

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

Blank. Blank. Blank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I'm left wondering "and now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I strolled out empty-handed.

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

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

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

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

I have nothing to say.

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

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

I can't describe the feeling of utter nothingness.

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

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

Where to now?

It seems to happen to everyone who does this sort of thing.

The truth is you simply run out of things to say. It's what happened to the last blog I did...

You sit down and think, "well...um, yeah?!"

I don't want to say I'm stopping because then you look like an idiot when you start again.
And I don't want to just leave things be because then you may wonder what's happened to me (presumptuous as that is!)

So... I don't really know what to do.

You'll remember I said that if you've never ever left a comment on this blog, I would really appreciate an e-mail just so that I know who you were... and I was completely blown away by the response.

As a result you kind of create a rod for your own back and I think that I'm just being a shit by going "nah - this sucks, I'm giving up."

But I'm sitting here and I have nothing to say.

Today I worked. I went to gym. I travelled on the Central Line. I got home. I unpacked my gym bag, I moved some furniture.
Tomorrow I'm going to work, I have the day off gym and tomorrow night I'm going out for dinner with friends.
Er... I made invitations for my birthday in June and I have decided to bin the car.

And that's that...

It's turning into the non-blog blog.

So... that's what's going on. That's it.

The sum-total of this moment. That is me right now.

That is what this is.

Right now it is just nothing. Just bla. Just...

....sentence after sentence after sentence.

And I have nothing to say. Nothing's making me riled enough to furiously write it down.
Nothing's bothering me.

Right now there is nothing. I have to make my bed, read a book for a while and then go to bed.

And that's all there is to it.

Stroke and breathe

You are the most unattractive man I have ever met in my entire life.

You have demonstrated every loathsome characteristic of the male personality and even discovered a few new ones.

You are physically repulsive,
Intellectually retarded,
You are morally reprehensible, vulgar, insensitive, selfish, stupid...

You have no taste, a lowsy sense of humour and you smell.

You're not even interesting enough to make me sick.

Thanks. I though I should share that. It makes me smile every time.

So remember I told you I was having my room decorated... well, you like what I've done with it?

Yeah, it's not a fucking joke.

That's what it feels like to live in at the moment.

There are bulldog clips holding an old duvet cover in place which is acting as curtains and all the light fittings are hanging out of their sockets.

God, I am so not predisposed to renovating. And it's not like I'm doing it anyway.

Moving on.

On Saturday I was at Profile yeah? And then I totally slagged the place off and all who visit it?

Er, so I get this e-mail at lunchtime...

Hi Bobby,

How are you, hope you had fun on saturday.

Well as it happens i thought it would be nice to meet again.

So if you are up for it, then why don't we meet over a drink/coffee and see what we can get to know about each other and take it from there really......

Hopefully catch up soon.

Chris

Yes, so do the words "take it from there" mean "you come back to my place"?

And secondly "see what we get to know about each other". Does that mean "you can look in my underpants and I into yours"?

Thirdly, the name Chris is jinxed for me.

My dad is called Chris and I think that has meant that I am never ever going to shag someone who shares my dad's name.

There have been numerous close calls, but it's weird. If a guy's called Chris we always become good friends, we never shag.

Oh yeah, and the most and most important thing is that I don't have a clue who this guy is.

I wasn't even drunk but I don't remember giving my e-mail out to anyone, especially not my work one.

I remember talking to a barman or someone who worked there at one stage who was quite hot and I think called Chris but ... hmmm.... it's a mystery.

Of course this will all be cleared up when I write back but is it rude to say "sorry, I don't know who the fuck you are!?' What if they're super hot and I repel them with my filthy attitude?

Oh well.

So anyway... in the gym pool this evening. Ohmygod. I'm swimming and then there's this other really fit guy in my lane.

And I swim especially slow as I near the end of the pool where he's stood so I can check out the lower half of his body under water.

I swim more and he swims and I swim faster and he can't keep up and I lap him and...

.. then I come into dock at the end of the lane and stand up to clear my goggles to get a look at the upper half.

And he says, with a fake and forced laugh... "so you swim good - yeah?"

I smile, say thanks and then he says something like "you have tip to swim fast?" and I can't place his accent.

He has olive skin, stubble and a shaved head on number 1 with big arms and a great chest. It is all smooth and shining with the water.

So I say maybe we should sit somewhere and I'll show you how to swim well. And we adjourn to the sauna where he sits right next to me.

I can feel the heat, from his arm radiating onto mine.

And the sweat starts to break out, all over his body and it runs down his pecs and then my knee touches his leg and he looks at me and moves in and I can see movement in his black Speedo.

And then he leans in and I take his head with my hand and our lips lock and I put my hand gently on his stomach and he pulls me in closer, with determination. Our tongues are enmeshed with sweat and spit, the heat of the sauna making our kiss soft, hot and wet.

Whoops!

Sorry, I mean; I'm standing in the pool and I say "well, what's most important about the stroke is pulling under the water" and I show him the movement but in my head all I can think about is what I'd like to do to him in the sauna.

He listens attentively and because he seems interested I go on for longer than I should. But I can't really get out because there is a semi.

I show him the breathing and the arm stroke, finish and carry on swimming to wear the blood flow off.

He now seems to be getting on fine so I get out and take a cold shower.

Full circle

I have a game I want everyone to play. It's called Spot the Causal Link.

Since last Wednesday I have been in a particularly filthy mood.

On a completely separate note, this is what my bedroom has looked like since last Wednesday...

I think our decorator wins the award for Slowest Painter In The World.

Can anyone spot the link? Or any link?

Scribble your answers on the back of the middle cubicle toilet door at the gym please.

Speaking of the gym, tonight I had a good work-out having done arms.

Here are five things I should have said to various people but didn't:

1/ "Mate, the only thing you're doing anything to is your knees and it's not a good thing.

2/ "You smell"

3/ "You really should stop flexing, posing and looking at yourself in the mirror and start working out instead."

4/ "You really do remind me of the elderly paedophile in Family Guy. Are you actually doing anything or just staring at that boy?"

5/ "Yes, sorry it was me who farted. And I wasn't expecting it to be that smelly."

Speaking of fit guys... I spotted a picture in The Sun this morning.

Basically Peter Phillips (one of the members of the Royal Family) is getting married and he had his stag do at the weekend.

One of the stag tasks required Peter to dress up in a white leotard and stand around or something.

Fuck knows what actually, but can we all please the man's legs. Goddam.

For an upper-class sponge, I have to say that those are particularly hot legs.

God, he can come and invade my kingdom anytime. Or I'd be pleased to shine my armour for this prince. Or c'mon your lordship, show us your joust-stick. Or I bet the crown jewels look most impressive, hurr hurr.

And check that butt too.

Of course this fine form is purely based on one thing and that's rugby. Rugby really is a sport brought down from the heavens on the back of 15 burly men in shorts for the enjoyment of homogays everywhere.

Which is the perfect opportunity to use this picture of Lawrence Dallaglio looking bulletproof.

And yes, we're typing this, sitting on the bedroom floor.

Which means we're back where we started.

Anyone got any news? Gossip? Anything gratefully accepted.

Oh yeah - did you hear the one that allegedly AKIM and NELLEKcM NAI riS have had a go at each other? Surely not...

Bla bla

So it's Sunday night and I just don't know what to feel.

Last night I had what could best be described as the singular worst time I've had in ages.

I have been looking over the blog to see if I've mentioned Gareth before and I can't find any mention of him.

Gareth is shag-zilla. He's kind of fun to go out with except when he's on the prowl which is all the time.

Towards the end of 2005 he developed a taste for big, hairy, muscular men so we went to XXL together a few times, me more out of curiosity. God, that's a post on it's own...

I have to say though that despite the scenery (men) at XXL not really being my type, the music far eclipsed anything else in the London at the time.

Anyway, so he's moved from hairy musclemen and now prowls Profile Bar every Saturday night. He invited me so I decided to go long to see what it was like.

You can guess what I think about the place by my current mood.

It really made me quite chronically depressed / upset / low on the Tube home.

Imagine four floors of bar, filled with gays who've engorged on a whole load of dust all yapping about Kylie, Madonna, muscle, Kylie, Madonna, muscle, oooh get her...

Now I realise why I've studiously avoided the place.

It made me feel so totally crap because you start to think, "maybe I'm not supposed to be gay."

I really don't care that much about Madonna's latest look and I really don't care that much about the penis size of the last person I shagged.

I do not shrill when I laugh. I do not air kiss. I cannot spend 20 minutes talking about Andrew Christian underwear.

Of all the guys in this place, is seems that that is the limit of their conversation.

Oh, I can't be bothered to talk about this anymore because I sound bitter and bitchy and bla bla...

Instead, I'm going to put on a Nine Inch Nails CD and lie in bed reading my book.

If you want to tell me to grow up and don't be such a whinger, I won't mind.

A letter

Dear Dale (that is your real name),

I remember you from my days at school in Cape Town. You played rugby and you were quite good academically. You were quite hot - I particularly remember that you had amazing legs.

Except you were a complete twat.

I remember you once teased me because of a Leila K CD that I'd bought.

Yeah, looking back it was a pretty awful choice of music but at the time I thought that it was quite cool.

However, you took the CD out of my locker while my back was turned and tried to show it off to get others to laugh at me.

I managed to grab it back and shove it in my locker. I think I may have told you to fuck off.

It was a moment of tension and all the other guys went "oooohhh..." as if waiting for a fight to break out. It never did.

Even though I'd saved up my pocket money to buy that CD I never listened to it again after what you did.

The funny thing is, is that I'd forgotten about it until yesterday afternoon.

I didn't recognise you at first because you've put on a bit of weight and you're wearing glasses now.

You were waiting to cross Euston Road at around 7pm last night, to walk down Upper Woburn Place. You'd obviously just got off a train at Euston Station, just as I had done.

I was stood right behind you. The first time I have seen you in about 11 years.

You never looked around but you had you done, you would have seen me staring right down your neck.

It was then that I remembered my Leila K CD and what you did.

As a bus approached I suddenly thought how poetic it would be if I were to have pushed you in front of it.

Just as your face would have connected with the front of the vehicle so I would have cooed "that's for the way you treated me all those years ago, fucker!"

Instead the green man appeared, the beeping started and we crossed the road. You turned left and I turned right.

Dale, you'll never know how close you came to being shoved under a big red London bus.

Of course I chose not to do it because you're not worth it.

You were weating tatty old Nike shoes and a rather beaten Springbok rugby jersey. That's why I noticed you in the first place.

I was crossing the road to the car park to get into my convertible.

The best revenge is happiness, wealth, money, stability and confidence.

As far as I'm concerned, I got my revenge on idiots like you ages ago.

If I ever am stood behind you again maybe I'll tap you on the shoulder and say hello.

Or maybe I'll just push you in front of the next bus, just for the hell of it.

See ya!

Bobby

Up north...

I am sitting on my bed which is packed with CD racks, clothes and magazines.

Basically, I am living out of a suitcase in my own house. This is because the decorator was supposed to be here on Thursday and Friday to do my room.

I completely packed up my room so that he could do his shit because I've been away in the most depressing place in all of England.

The decorator didn't come and I am back and tired and fuck.

Anyway. So do you wanna see some pics?

From above. Me in the hotel loo, drunk and thinking "hmm.. these knickers look quite good with these trousers. I feel quite co-ordinated actually, best I take a photo..."

Yes, this a big bed, I am drunk so I had better jump on it.

Yes, this is odd. How many hotels do you know offer rooms for threesome couples?! If anyone can explain this bed configuration, I'd be interested to know actually.

Please note how, even though I am happy to jump up and down on the bed, my pyjamas have to be laid out and folded.

When drunk, bored and in a hotel room with mirrors it is always important to take photos of yourself being childishly lewd. You can then use these as your Facebook profile picture which you can later regret. At the time you think you look so fucken hard-core / edgy / ferosh.

This made me laugh. It is a genuine bit of graffiti, not in a toilet but scrawled on the wall on Blackpool promenade.

I love how they says it's "urgent". I can imagine the poor fucker who wrote this, champing at the bit, with his black marker going "just give me some gay sex, for fucks' sake!"

Then, having spent two days in Blackpool (two days too many), this afternoon I dag around Manchester while the rest of the crew have to sort out their shit (aka process the rushes).

Here's a picture of some street in Manchester...

And that's all I can say because I'm tired and I have to re-arrange my bedroom back to the way it was and bla.

Yeah, processing the rushes is basically doing shit to the stuff you've filmed so that you can view it.

Oh god, I can't believe I now have to tackle this bedroom. Fuck.

Changing lanes

So my new life as a semi-professional swimmer gets off to a great start.

Up at 7.30am, I am in the pool at 8.

I remember why I used to enjoy coming in the mornings and that's because Jack is there. Jack is one of the men I'm going to marry. I love him but he doesn't love me. Yet.

Actually Jack doesn't even know me but let's not let ignorance stand in the way of our romance.

Back in September I had a very close encounter with Jack which you can read about here.

This morning, again, Jack is there as he is every morning, looking as hot as ever.

If you can make it to my gym at 7.30am, you will see Jack.

Anyway, I go and swim.

I have to say though, it's becoming like a goddam civil war in the fast lane.

This morning we had middle-aged woman doing bloody breast-stroke and average-body man doing crawl.

Average-man was quite fast except his left leg kicked above the water so every time his foot went in, it went "ka-plonk" and splashed.

When you're training for gold, it's these little things that can really fuck-up your training session.

Anyway, because the gym pool is a little over a metre deep I have decided to scout for other venues to train and now I'm bored of talking about this.

Ohmygod. In other news, I only have two months left of being 29. Ohmygod, I'm turning 30. Panic, panic.

Okay panic over. Fuck.

Finally, do you want to hear something really weird? Like it's just a great example of how our world is shrinking and it's all just weird?

So I got a text this morning from my mum.

It's basically, "were you doing something with pigs on the TV a few weeks ago"?

Of course the answer to this is yes, we were out in a field shooting a sequence that involved pigs and we were up to our knees in mud and crap.

I was lying on the ground with the cameraman, sound recordist and lighting guy with his boards, trying to get this pig to sniff the camera lens.

Of course, if you don't know the saying then learn it now. Never work with animals or children.

Here's what happens.

"And cue the piggies running towards the camera. As if the camera is a dead body that the pigs are going to destroy."

"Come on little piggy. Sniff the fucking camera. Be menacing and sniff the fucking camera for fucks' sake."

The pig splutters and does what seems to be a sneeze.

"Oh you fucking cunt animal."

"Is there mud on the lens?"

"Ah for fucks' sake."

"Stupid fucking thing"

"Cut - hold on, we've got mud on the lens because the fucking thing sneezed."

"Bastard."

"Yeah - we're going to have to take it off and clean it. Fuck."

So my mum and dad are sat watching this out-takes programme on TV in Cape Town, with a glass of wine and who pops up?

Me in a red cap swilling around in a pig farm on a cold spring day swearing like a fish wife.

It's weird how the world turns.

And thank god they've only seen the pigs out-take. I hope they don't accidentally end up watching Heavy Homo Spunkers 4 - Dripping Facials.

I don't think my mother would be texting me the next morning.

Game for a laugh

I've been doing some investigating.

Every night I have my swim in the gym and it's getting longer and longer. Tonight I did 40 lengths, at pace, non-stop.

From lengths 20 - 30 I alternate - swimming up is freestyle and down is breast stroke.

This evening I managed to passive-aggressive five people out of my lane (I know I used an adjective as a verb but work with me here...).

So the point of this is that I think I want to participate in the next Gay Games and I think that my stroke is going to be freestyle.

When I was younger (oh god, here we go...) I used to be a very good swimmer until high school when I just got bored with swimming up and down and up and down.

Instead of being totally motivated by the boys in Speedos I was just like "ah, whatever - swim without me, I don't care."

But now I think, well what if I had stuck with it? I swam for my school and at one stage even did trials for our province.

When I'm swimming in the gym and making all the other fuckers get out my way, I just wish one of them would stop and say "excuse me, but I'll race you, slowest one has to get out."

What you do is put markers at either end of the pool and then start at the same end. First to swim back and forth and pick up the marker is the winner.

The next Gay Games is in 2010 so I have two years to train. I think participating at 32 is okay. Look at Mark Foster, a British swimmer, he's 40 and still swimming competitively.

And let's be honest. The Gay Games isn't about being fast, just looking good in a swimming costume. Surely?

I am going to start training for this now. Except if it means having to get up early in the morning to swim.

I have also been contemplating who I should swim for.

I was born in Zimbabwe, grew up in South Africa and Britain. I have a British and South Africa passport but am also entitled to a Zimbabwean one.

I think it would be great if I could swim for Zimbabwe. They'd all be like "what? a white gay Jew from a country where white people, gay people and Jews are all persecuted?! Who knew..."

This is also good because if you come last then everyone will say, "hello! He's from Zimbabwe where they don't even have swimming pools so actually he did better than all of them."

And everyone will clap for me and it'll be a great feel-good story and I'll get loads of mercy shags.

Of course the Gay Games is not about that at all. Who the hell suggested that?!

So I'd better start training because, let's be honest, it's not about the taking part, it's all about winning.

Unless, of course, I don't win. Then it's all about taking part.

Now, to check that I'm a good swimmer I have had to take a few photos...

These are the two poses...

They show me ready to dive and cheering my team-mates on in the 4x100 freestyle relay.

A big of jiggery-pokery on Photoshop and hello!

The crowd are sitting on the edge, the swimmers under starters' orders - will this be Bobby's record-breaker?



And then...

"Swim faster you fuckers... last one to the finish doesn't get to join the soap-up in the showers afterwards!"

Ohmygod, I'm so gonna swim these fuckers under the table actually. If you get what I mean.


Oh yeah, I'm not Jewish. My uncle and his wife are Jewish so it half counts.