Thank you

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

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

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

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

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

Or "that Bobby guy wrote very poignantly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, to the order of play...

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

The recap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thanks

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

Thank you for the advice.

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

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

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

I really want to thank you.

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

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

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

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

Good-bye

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

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

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

Lingering good-byes become tedious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With love and light, always.

Bobby x

Memories

I am so hungover.

Maybe this time I have actually poisoned myself.

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

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

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

So listen - I really need your help with something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sex was quite graphic and the violence quite intense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this is where I need your help.

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

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

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

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

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

In mah house

I am SO going to reget this in the morning.

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

I am piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssed.

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

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

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

It is so fucking ugly, ugly, ugly.

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

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

Somewhere out there

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

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

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

The answer is that I don't really know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This morning the following arrived:

Dearest Bobby,

I thought you might want some feedback on something….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How life changes, hey?

Cheers Bobby.

Ever grateful!

G

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you.

The Immaculate Collection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So far there are ticks next to:

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

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

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

Music For The Jilted Generation

You have to save me from myself.

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

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

Don't mock me... here goes:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

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

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

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

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

No, there was none of that.

We went to see Hairspray.

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

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

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

It was fun and camp and pointless and just brilliant.

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

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

They so did it.

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

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

That's how I felt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Invisible Touch

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

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

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

It's my new obsession.

Every album has to have the correct artwork.

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

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

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

WTF?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's what reminded me of the story.

And then I snapped this picture...

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

We Too Are One

Fuck.

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

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

Like three steps forward and then one back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Rhyming words, work them out...)

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

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

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

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

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

The end.

Hounds of Love

We met on a train about two weeks ago.

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

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

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

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

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

About three bottles later.

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

But then he hands me a card.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But.

Hang On Little Tomato

"Yes, I did it. I killed Yvette.

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

So anyway.

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

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

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

But that's not what's irritating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's actually not that interesting really.

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

To someone I (don't) know

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Dear C451,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With love, light and a smile.

Bobby x

From the other side

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

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

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

So anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She now lives in San Francisco on the West Coast.

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

The cryptic bit is at the beginning of side B.

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

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

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

?

So.

Is there anyone still there?

Keep rollin', rollin' rollin'...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings me to the next point...

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

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

Funnily enough, that was on a Monday too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, I guess I'll see you soon.

Nothing in the air tonight

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

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

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

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

Hence, I haven't been to collect it.

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

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

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

What's the point of a mobile phone anyway?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talking talons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

...


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

So rude.

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

okay, sh!

...

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