Adventures in Bobbyland

Bobby Vanquish

2009-03-09T22:23:00.004Z

Revisiting an old blog is like opening a shoebox that you've had hidden under the bed.

It's not just the old posts that bring back so many memories but you begin to recall where you were when you wrote them and what you were feeling at the time.

I decided to kill this blog a week before I turned 30. Time's change, your attitude shifts and you move away from things.

At the time it felt like the right thing to do. It still does.

I have thought about deleting it but having looked back over it, I am not going to.

I spent hours writing the posts and hundreds of people interacted with it by leaving comments and in a sense cared for what I was doing.

Even though the site hasn't been updated for nearly 9 months it is still attracting visitors thanks to links on other sites that people haven't changed.

Perhaps you're reading this because you still have a link to the site in Google Reader or maybe you're new and have just surfed to the blog.

Whatever the case, please enjoy a little snapshot of my life between 28 July 2007 and 28 May 2008. I can't believe it was so long ago that I started it.

Some of it is very personal, some of it ridiculous and I make no claims to any of it being good.

I hope that perhaps you find some of it relevant.

Thank you

2008-05-27T21:00:00.001+01:00

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

2008-05-26T18:52:00.009+01:00

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

2008-05-25T21:18:00.003+01:00

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

2008-05-24T23:30:00.000+01:00

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

2008-05-21T22:34:00.005+01:00

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

2008-05-21T00:10:00.000+01:00

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

2008-05-20T13:54:00.003+01:00

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

2008-05-18T22:02:00.002+01:00

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

2008-05-17T00:34:00.003+01:00

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

2008-05-14T23:01:00.005+01:00

"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

2008-05-14T00:10:00.004+01:00

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

2008-05-13T14:38:00.006+01:00

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.

?

2008-05-12T20:16:00.001+01:00

So.

Is there anyone still there?

Keep rollin', rollin' rollin'...

2008-05-05T11:00:00.003+01:00

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

2008-05-03T17:27:00.005+01:00

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

2008-05-01T22:13:00.004+01:00

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.

Somewhere in Theatreland

2008-04-30T00:03:00.006+01:00

An essential component of this post doesn't appear in Google Reader etc. It's best viewed via the site.

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

2008-04-29T13:57:00.007+01:00

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

2008-04-28T21:08:00.004+01:00

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

2008-04-27T12:11:00.008+01:00

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

2008-04-25T23:11:00.003+01:00

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

2008-04-24T23:04:00.003+01:00

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

2008-04-23T21:35:00.003+01:00

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

2008-04-22T23:12:00.010+01:00

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

2008-04-21T20:51:00.004+01:00

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

2008-04-20T21:59:00.010+01:00

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

2008-04-19T10:41:00.010+01:00

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.

2008-04-17T19:15:00.001+01:00

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?

2008-04-16T21:27:00.006+01:00

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

2008-04-15T22:05:00.007+01:00

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

2008-04-14T15:26:00.005+01:00

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

2008-04-13T22:55:00.004+01:00

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

2008-04-12T12:55:00.004+01:00

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...

2008-04-11T22:22:00.011+01:00

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

2008-04-09T21:28:00.004+01:00

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

2008-04-08T20:45:00.005+01:00

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.

Hi, how are you. Dangle, dangle....

2008-04-07T19:58:00.004+01:00

So, here are some random pictures.

Firstly...

Is it really uncool to snap a photo of this woman's muffin?

Check the stomach overhang, man... She was on the tube, unaware and reading her book.

Over her belt it was cascading like the best Starbucks blueberry.

And then these two guys - a photo which I'd forgotten I'd snapped, again on the Tube. They were so drunk they did what all straight boys do, when pissed...

Yep, they removed their clothes - much to the amusement / annoyance of the other passengers.

The one on the left had his tracksuit pants fall to his ankles when he got off and of course fell all over the plaform laughing.

Do you know that that has been the most exciting thing in my lost for the last few days? It has been work, work, work...

I wish I had exotic stories of dirty sex and living on the edge but I don't.

Oh actually - not speaking of dirty sex - have you ever ended up sharing a gym changeroom with someone you work with?

It's very embarrassing, especially when that colleague has no shame in walking around naked.

We don't know each other that well but well enough for him to walk up to me and make small talk.

And on Sunday he's stood there, me in my gym clothes and he completely naked.

You will know this physique so well because it is Typical Male.

He is slightly overweight with white skin. He has hairy shoulders and a hairy stomach and his bush is totally au naturel. He is definitely straight because he recently got married.

But I just want to say to him, "mate I am happy to engage in small talk but not while you've got nothing on."

Straight guys are such a funny species. And this is based on my experience at the gym...

Straight guys are more than happy to wonder around completely naked. There are straights who even stand at the basins and shave, in the morning, without a stitch of clothing on.

While doing this their willys rest on the edge of the counter. Always be careful what you touch in change-rooms.

Ironically, when straight people drop things on the floor they are more than utterly comfortable with bending right over to pick them up. Like right over, legs straight and arse open.

The straights also have no objections to things like dirt and such. Straights do not wear flip-flops in the shower.

In the shower straights will happily use hand soap to wash their hair. Do they know much it dries their scalp out?!

And you can also tell a straight by the amount of time they spend arranging their hair.

The gays will put on some product, whizz it up and it's fine. Straights at the gym will stand there and adjust, brush and pull and isn't it funny that the straights can spend hours in front of the mirror admiring themselves.

And then you wonder, if given the chance would they happily sit and admire other men's bodies too?

So just how straight are they really?!

Okay, I admit...

2008-04-05T21:00:00.010+01:00

So first can I show you something intriguing?

Yes, sometimes I like to have a look-see and investigate who's reading my rubbish.

Look at this data on a visitor that the stat machine threw out at me...

The Pope's been reading my blog. Holy shit!

The mind boggles...I mean, what do you think he was looking at?

Dear Mr Pope

I'm just Bobby in London but if you could lay off the anti-gay stuff that you sometimes preach, that would be quite cool.

Also, I found this picture of the last Pope. It's quite old but can you please look at the guy to the right of Il Papi. What a hottie.

If there are guys knocking around the Vatican who look like this, please could you send them to me.

Thanks and no disrespect. Yeah?

Bobster x x

PS. If you ever decide to flog this thing off...

...please let me know, cause I'd be happy to take it. I think it's beautiful.

Did you know that Michaelangelo was a fairy-boy? But let's not talk about that. Ok bye.

So anyway. Remember I told you about Guapo, my plant?

Well, Patsy e-mailed to say that he thought his Plant Without A Name should get together with mine.

Here is a picture of them meeting. We reckon they like each other.

No, we're not mad. This is totally normal, isn't it?

Can I admit something to you?

But you have to promise that you won't say anything to anyone else.

Do you have a CD that you're mortally embarrassed about but enjoy listening to?

This is really bad, okay...

When I was young my mum bought this record of "popera", like pop and opera mixed. It was worse than Hooked on Classics (anyone remember that?)

I used to listen to it - and we're talking when I was about 9 or ten years old - and love it.

The other day, I don't know why it sprung into my head but I suddenly thought "god, whatever happened to Kimera?"

I'm almost ashamed to say this but I have managed to find and download Kimera's album The Lost Opera, the record I used to love as a kid. I've been listening to it to death.

Have you ever heard of Kimera (kim-aira)?

She's this Korean operatic singer who put together a medley of opera standards and jazzed them up with techno-ish style music.

I say techno-ish style - this was in 1984/5.

It sounds bad, yes. But check her out...

I put together the montage picture of some of her album covers. Now can you see why I'm coy about admitting my latest obsession?

High-pitched operatic screeching, all that fucking make-up. No wonder things turned out the way they did.

Am I the only person who's ever heard of this woman?

Please don't let me be alone in this wilderness.

Actually. Speaking of music, I noticed this on my iPod while going through my song list.

Ten men - Morcheeba
9PM Till I Come - ATB
8 Letters - Holmes Ives
7 - Prince and the New Power Generation
Six Feet Under - No Doubt
5 Years - Bjork
4 Leaf Clover - Anna Savage
3AM Eternal - The KLF
2 Good 2 Be True - Deborah Cox
#1 Crush - Garbage

Nothing solves a problem like aggression

2008-04-02T22:26:00.004+01:00

Doof!

Bobby stands up.

Bobby: God, sorry - sorry...

Other man (overweight with ill-fitting faded pink trunks and trashy European accent that is neither Dutch, German nor French): It's clockwise - you have to swim always on the left.

Bobby: Sorry, I didn't see you get into the pool.

Other man: Yeah but you must watch where you going.

Bobby: I said sorry, I didn't see you get into the lane.

Twat man (walking to start swimming again): Yeah, well watch where you're swimming. Idiot.

Bobby: I beg your pardon?

Arsehole man has swam off hastily.

Bobby out loud: Stupid cunt.

Irritating woman sitting at edge of pool on lounger reading newspaper: Excuse me...

Bobby noticing woman, embarrassed so throws on sheepish face: God, sorry! I didn't realise you were sat there.

Irritating cow: That language isn't very nice.

Bobby: I just said I'm sorry - I didn't realise you were sat there.

Stroppy woman: Still, that's not a very nice word and I don't think you fsdlkj sdlkj slkjb sflk sdfgo;iyqw tp98124 5piuywq rt

By this stage I can't hear because I've just ignored her and started swimming again.

Now aggressive and irritated I swim extra fast so that I'm constantly on the tail of the other guy who I accidentally bashed into.

At the length he lets me swim past which means I swim even faster to lap him and end up back on his tail again.

This continues, me swimming right up behind him to make sure that as he gets to the end of the length, I am there.

This forces him to wait while I swim ahead, fast enough to catch up with him again just as he's about to finish, thus cramping the lane on purpose.

Finally after another 4-odd lengths, he gives up, gets out and I have the lane all to myself again.

Aggressive, belligerent, competitive, hostile... I simply remember a few of my favourite things... and then I don't feeeeeeeeeeeeeel.....!

... so baaaaaaaad!

Wash my wheels

2008-04-01T22:15:00.008+01:00

Gym: A guide.

The best time to go is during a Manchester United match because most of the gym is empty.

If you're straight and really have to go during this time then you should sit on an exercise bike in front of the bank of TVs in front and shout at the football.

End of guide.

So, first.

Remember I asked you for a picture of your eyes? In case you've forgotten, there's more about it here.

Well, it's taken Patrick all this time but he's decided to send in his...

Let's not speculate on why Patsy's pupils are the size of saucers because it's not our job to do that!

All I should say is that Patsy's a university student.

I was once a Uni student so I know what goes on.

So if you missed the fun the first time around, you can still mail me a picture of your eyes. Yep, just your eyes, I'll stick it up and thousands around the world can look lovingly into them. (This is an offer you cannot refuse).

bobby.vanquish AT gmail.com

Anyway, so Patrick says he's celebrating the arrival of spring by buying a potplant for his dorm.

Maybe he should introduce his potplant to my potplant.

I don't think I've ever introduced you to Guapo?

Guapo sits near my door and guards the electric toothbrush and a British Airways sign that says something about "it's not our policy to lose luggage".

Like how many airlines do you know who deliberately set out to lose your shit? What a stupid sign, I had to have it.

Anyway, Guapo is about five years old and was bought at the Neasden Ikea and he has been there since the beginning. I think I bought him in March 2003 and he's still there. Poor Guapo.

He's been starved, thrown onto the floor (during this episode) and I think I may have even weed into him at one point. But he's still there.

He's named after the parrot or dog (?) owned by Jack in Will & Grace. Yes, I know. You don't need to say it.... Gay. Gay. Gay.

Moving on.

So we were talking about our wheels after I celebrated the first day of spring by showing you how I like to take my top down (yes, that line of innuendo is going to be used again and again...)

Then I get sent this e-mail from Pete who wants to show us his wheels.

Of course this is a very butch 4x4. Or is it?

Far be it for me to speculate, of course but er, that mud looks ... hmm.

Give me a bucket, some mud and sieve and I can look pretty "off the beaten track" too.

And I'm also not the kind of person to dream up scenarios but I'm sure Pete doesn't throw mud at it only to then have to take it down to the car wash to have it cleaned.

What the hell is this picture doing here?

Gratuitous. Unnecessary. We were going so well, talking about wheels and being all butch-like and then you had to throw this thing into the mix?

Whoops! Here's another one...

Okay, that's about enough of this filth.

I am going to stop. No more.

To prove that I am serious - here's a picture of me reading my Al Qaeda book. Or that sounds rather odd.

Instead, here is a picture of me reading my book about Al Qaeda. We're very highbrow here at this blog. Very high brow...

Moving on

2008-03-30T20:48:00.009+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

Do we all know who this is on the left?

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

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

It's the goddam Afghan president man!

Okay. Fuck it, lame joke.

Moving on...

Blogs are funny things. Seriously.

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

Firstly...

Here's a picture of Juan's lunch.

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

Like it has carraway seeds in it or something.

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

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

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

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

Well, this arrives...

"Hey Bobby,

Your last post really struck a chord with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember these words as Esther said...
"There's only so much you can learn in one place
The more that I wait, the more time that I waste.

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

Let me know how things go.

Summer starts here

2008-03-30T15:20:00.005+01:00

So here's the thing...

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

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

And again today I was reminded why.

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

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

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

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

Woo hoo! Seriously. Wooo-fucking-hoo!

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

This is summer in three easy steps...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Woop! Woop!

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

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

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

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

Past out

2008-03-29T22:20:00.004Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was tiny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank God and all the others who helped me.

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

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

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

Fasten your buckle

2008-03-28T00:29:00.004Z

Back in London. Fucked. Not drunk but fucked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though what constitutes joining the Mile High Cub?

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

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

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

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

Can I can barely keep my eyes open.

Instead I will go to bed.

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

Actually. Speaking of which...

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

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

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

Mwhaha...

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

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

Seeya!

Indulge me not

2008-03-26T19:41:00.008Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

This next picture comes from David...

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

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

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

And then finally I get sent this...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaving now, they both looked absolutely crest-fallen.

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

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

Instead I stopped myself completely.

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

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

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

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

I know it did for me.

Doormats and dashboards

2008-03-25T21:56:00.007Z

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

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

Now listen - can I ask you a favour?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naked pictures are also encouraged. Obviously.

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

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

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

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

Uh!?

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

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

What a fucking pigsty.

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

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

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

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

Did I? Didn't I?

That's tomorrow bitches...

So thanks

2008-03-24T22:17:00.002Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Put the chocolate down. Just kidding!

No, just do it now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah - same to you. All of you.

x

Just make me normal

2008-03-24T12:45:00.002Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nicey-normal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleazy does it

2008-03-22T12:12:00.007Z

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

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

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

We nickname Alex's boyfriend Daddy Warbucks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caring for the environment

2008-03-21T14:25:00.005Z

Urgh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only sensible people.

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

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

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

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

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

Under the covers

2008-03-20T22:13:00.007Z

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

And me?

Well, I'm in Heaven.

No, not under the arches but under the covers!

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

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

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

I fucking hate cold weather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes - don't worry!

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

Are They doing anything interesting? Are they fuck.

Another evening and more fucking Catherine Tate.

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

Jamie and Tommy

2008-03-19T20:41:00.008Z

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

You are tempting yourself for disappointment here, I promise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dirty bastards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Underneath, there is a Jamie Oliver cookbook.

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

However, time will come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gay, gay, gay...

Hello gorgeous!

2008-03-19T18:47:00.004Z

So...

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

The big 3-0.

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

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

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

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

Where the fuck did my life go? Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black square

2008-03-18T21:51:00.009Z

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

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

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

Which I was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bla bla

2008-03-17T16:31:00.006Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And as I type this Roger Waters sings:

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

From Shine On You Crazy Diamond, Part IV.

Knocking on

2008-03-15T10:12:00.004Z

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

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

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

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

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

The rest of the glass, not the bottle!

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

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

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

Which do you think is the most credible?

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

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

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

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

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

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

There goes the neighbourhood

2008-03-13T22:05:00.008Z

Big news bitches, the biggest news ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes bitches... you stalk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You watch.

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

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

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

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

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

The end of the beginning

2008-03-12T11:44:00.003Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the best way to end things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hamba gahle

2008-03-10T21:18:00.006Z

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

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

So...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway.

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

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

I texted back the following:

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

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

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

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

The story is as simple as it is complicated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I really have had the time of my life.

To be or yacht to be

2008-03-10T12:41:00.002Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which is what we do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am ready to leave.

Full steam ahead

2008-03-09T21:08:00.003Z

So god - I just - whatever.

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

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

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

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

Reading this may inform your understanding of what happens next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shake my head and continue looking at the magazine.

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

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

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

This is humanity at its finest, 1.30am

In the downstairs jacuzzi two guys are asleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waiting for the call

2008-03-06T20:14:00.007Z

So I'm wallowing in my depression. I have the phone on the table here and there's no message coming through.

I really wish Paul from last night would call or text. He was just so sweet and nice and beefy.

My house is only about five minutes' drive from his. It's so perfect.

I am also listening to Rod Stewart, who is the best person at times like these, to ease the depression.

He sings:

Are those your eyes?
Is that your smile?
I've been looking at you forever
Yet I've never seen you before

Are these your hands? Holding mine?
Now I wonder how I could have been so blind.

And for the first time, I am looking in your eyes.
For the first time, I'm seeing who you are.

I wanna slow-dance with someone.

Here are five brilliant songs to slow-dance to.

5/ Jealous Guy - Bryan Ferry
"I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry that I made you cry. I'm just a jealous guy." Brilliant.

4/ Air Supply - Making Love Out Of Nothing
Killer 80s ballad and I'm loving it. Aching and desperate, it's perfect.

3/ Rod Stewart - Sailing
This song makes my cry involuntarily, it's just so beautiful. I imagine the video of it would be some really cute guy trying his hardest to get back to the person he so desperately loves, on Christmas Eve or something. I love it.

2/ Coming Around Again - Carly Simon
Her voice is so comforting. This is like do dance to when you want to say "I love you" at the end.

1/ Wish It Would Rain Down - Phil
The king of slow-dances tunes. This song is like the megaload. I want it played at my wedding one day. It easily features in the top five greatest songs of my life.
I have no significant memories attached to it because I don't want to corrupt it with triviality. When I finally meet the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, I will paint this song with those memories. When I hear those first four beats, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. A masterpiece.

Song conspicuously not on list:
Roxette - It Must Have Been Love
Reminds me of school discos, dancing with girls while making shopping lists in my head. Painful.

Okay, that's enough of depressing music.

Can we all please gather and stand in awe of the beauty of Bobby.

No, not me but Bobby Skinstad, the former South African rugby player. This man is a tower of hotness.

Above is Hot Bobby pointing with his finger and below we see Hot Bobby being all fierce on the front of a magazine.

So today Katie, her fiance (who're also out from London on holiday) and I were having lunch and look who came and sat at the table near us. Just look who's in the green T-shirt...

That man is so hot in real life. I wanted to go up and smell / lick / kidnap him.

And finally, because I've mentioned them so many times I had to show you my homies.

For five days a week Elizabeth cleans the house, entertains the dogs and answers our phone.

Say, for example, that our surname was Smith, Elizabeth answers the phone by going "hullo, Smith residence."

And then at the top of her voice she screams "Madam (my mother), it's for you...'

Which it always is and I have never worked out why my mother is so vehemently against answering her own phone.

Then, usually at around 1pm, every day, Elizabeth makes lunch for herself and Herbert. When it's ready Elizabeth will stand on the back step and just scream "Heeeerbeeeeeeeeeert. Heeeeerrbeeeeeeeeeeeeeert" until be comes to get the plate.

If Elizabeth has to stand there for ten minutes screaming his name, that's what she has to do.

For five days a week Herbert skims the pool, moves the hosepipe and smokes funny stuff in bits of rolled up newspaper. Sometimes my mother actually gets him to do gardening stuff like mow the lawn.

Although I've noticed that bizarrely, there's a gardening service that comes on a Wednesday to do that.

Anyway, so Herbert works our garden like an expert from Kew and Elizabeth keeps our house in ship-shape.

Standing there, don't they kinda remind you of these two?

Anyway.

Just incase you were wondering, no he hasn't phoned / texted.

All that listening to ballads means I think I may be over him. Give it 12 hours...

And I really liked him.

Got my number

2008-03-06T01:24:00.005Z

I have a stupid grin on my face. It's 1am.

So yesterday morning at the gym, before my pool party, I start chatting to a guy. We ended up sharing the pull-up bar.

He's studying at Stellenbosch University and he plays rugby. He is Afrikaans and 19 years old.

I don't even think it's worth droning on about the conversation, suffice to say that he lived pretty close to my parents and we ended up swapping numbers. His parents were away tonight.

Bla bla bla...bitches, I have just one word.

Bingo!

"You have a really fit body - stand against the wall, for the fun of it..." etc. etc.

A 19 year old rugby player from Stellenbosch. Holy fucking mother-fucking fuck.

He said he would like to see me again. I said yeah, would be nice. Inside my head I begged him to call me.

I'm bored now and going to bed. Alone. Life is good.

Edit
Hmm... so it's the next morning and I dunno if I should leave this post up. If there is a line of shamelessness I think this crosses it by a very long way.

And I wonder what you must think of me?

No, I don't usually shag boys and then take photos of them to stick on the web. Well, I didn't used to.

There is something not right about leaping out of bed, snapping a photo and then posting it on the net. Or am I being uptight?

I think my judgement was definitely clouded after my Pool Party For One. And the other problem with a blog is that there's no-one to go "dude, that's way too far..." Or "you need to take your foot off the gas."

Although, perhaps I should leave it up. I could be one of my problems.

I do things on impulse (like this post), then the next day I half regret doing it. So I then try and forget about it and don't learn the necessary lesson.

Like drinking to ease a hangover.

I had such a fantastic few hours with, let's call him Paul. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to get home and go "woop! woop!" But do you know when you such a great time that you have to tell someone?

And I couldn't really wake my parents up and jump on their bed going "you're never going to believe who I just shagged!"

Oh whatever. If you think I've completely crossed the line with this one, please let me know. And be brutal. Please.

I also really hope that he calls again, I like him.

Bobby playing pool

2008-03-05T20:31:00.009Z

For the first time today, I had nothing to do.

Elizabeth and Herbert were doing their bollocks in some part of the house that didn't bother me, my mother was out for the day and the mercury hit 34C.

What better than to throw a pool party. All for yourself.

So here's what you need...

First, glasses and lotion. Because my skin is still decidedly African, I use SPF 4. The glasses are Prada.

Then, obviously, because you're in the sun, these are necessary. Absolutely chilled.

And then, standing in the middle of the crisp chilled blue water with a beer, in the midst of weather that is mid-30C, one of these helps... I have no idea what it is.

And so from about 11am to 3.30pm I danced around in the swimming pool, drinking and listening to tunes.

Like the tiles around the pool, I made my own mosiac.

I pretended I was on MTV Spring Break - where all the muscle frat boys get together and hose each other down.

I pretended I was in some sexy music video, set on a poolside.

Underneath that cap and behind those sunglasses there is a full-force party happening.

I don't remember much of what happened, only that at around 4pm I needed to lie down badly.

Can we all just imagine spending in the day, jumping around and ~~completely fucked off your face~~ while listening to music in the middle of this...

It's been some of the best few hours of the holiday so far.

More pictures of me chilled in the pool, in my own little world.

About an hour ago (9pm) I had the following conversation with my mother.

Mother
We've been out for something to eat, we tried to wake you but you were fast asleep.

Bobby
I was tired, I was lying by the pool all day. The sun is tiring you know.

Mother
It's only tiring if you're out in the sun drinking all day.

Bobby
I was not...!

Mother
Well, why did Elizabeth have to clear up the empty bottles of cider and Castle Lager tins lying around the swimming pool?

What Bobby said to his mother:
Well, that's because Elizabeth was out there all day getting pissed on your booze.

What Bobby stopped himself from saying:
Lucky the poor bitch didn't moan about the rolled-up R200 note and the tea-tray that she had to clear-up too.

Anyway, yadda yadda...

So next time, you're invited to my pool party. Bring booze and a good swimming costume.

Show your Pride

2008-03-04T10:51:00.006Z

After the morning's events I pitch up for breakfast with Ian and Andrew.

I have a stupid grin on my face and the first thing I say to both of them is 'sorry I'm late but I'm in a VERY good mood...' They see the photo and so I am excused.

So to the Gay Pride Parade... yadda yadda - here are some photos.

In this photo above, please can we observe the guy in the top left hand corner of the truck (above the two blue balloons).

And in the photo below he is the one in the centre of the picture.

Goddam hot and goddam straight. Remember, we discussed him here. Whatever.

Some guys on a truck.

And there's this gay below, clearly trying to show-off. However, I wasn't going to give him the pleasure of snapping him from the front.

Though screw him, please can we all look at Thug between Purple Hotpants and Blue Shirt.

Just incase you weren't entirely sure if it was really a gay pride parade...

Some more drag queens on the back of a truck.

Then there's this photo from the carnival afterwards.

Dontcha love it?! What a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon in the sun than by gurning. Or maybe the photo could be called Double Pout. Check out those pouts man...

I reckon he's thinking, "I am thin and GORGEOUS!" Then, this was one of the drag acts, below, but I just like the photo with within a photo.

And then, check out this, walking to the toilet...

Finally...along the route I spotted this guy, below, who was so hot, hot, hot...

This is the kind of guy I want to marry.

He is not obviously queeny / sceney. He clearly had some dosh (judging by the camera), relative taste in clothes, a great tan and check out those arms.

This is him from behind. I think I am going to have to try and emulate and expand that look. It's kinda clean but sexy.

He just carried himself so well, and I dunno why I found him so sexy.

Finally, I saw him again late in the afternoon at the carnival where he had changed shirts.I wish I had said something to him but by this stage I was quite drunk and thought "whatever I say now, he's going to run a mile because I'm liquored."

But if anyone is in Cape Town or knows who he is please could they bring him to me. He is my new boyfriend. It's just that he doesn't know it yet.

Edit
Mwahaha! That's why doing this is so much fun sometimes. So thanks Alex, who mailed me the link to a photo gallery from Saturday, where this picture appears...

I don't care what you say, I still think he's fit. That wry look and furrowed brow just makes him hotter actually.

Starter for Pride

2008-03-03T22:17:00.005Z

On Saturday morning I am up early. It is Cape Town Pride and there is a lot to look forward to.

I am supposed to meet Andrew and Ian for breakfast, then we're going to watch the procession and attend the carnival afterwards. The idea is for us to meet at around 11am.

I figure there's enough time beforehand to go to gym.

And thus begins the story of one of the most shameless things I've ever done.

So I'm at the gym doing arms because I want to wear a tank top and therefore must have good arms, so I'm doing those tricep pulley-thingys.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot this guy. He is big, muscular and tall. I'm about 6' and he is definitely a head taller than me. Maybe he's about 6'4.

He has dark olive skin that is shining with sweat in the Saturday morning light. He is fucking sexy actually. I want him.

We glance at each other. He isn't mixed-race, looks more Latin American / Brazilian.

Next, I am at the water cooler and he is at the water cooler. And then I am standing doing arms and he appears next to me, doing arms.

On paper I am not convinced he's gay. He's very tall, very muscular but has an air of straight about him.

My hypothesis of this is based on:
1/ He has good legs (most gays only ever do upper body)
2/ None of his clothes appear to be designer
3/ He hasn't really looked at me - he's just ended up doing the same exercise next to me.

Whatever happens next, I'm not entirely sure but a conversation continues along the lines of:

Pablo (for thus is what this guy shall be known as, striking up a conversation)
It's hot today...

Bobby (trying to stop nervous-leg-shake syndrome)
Yes, it is... shouldn't really be in the gym but you know... gotta work out.

Pablo
Yeah (laff, laff...) is better to be spending it at beach

Bobby
Yeah - you don't sound South African, where are you from?

Pablo
I am from Brazil (surprise, surprise...), you also no sound South African?

Bobby
I'm on holiday from England.

Pablo
So you do anything interesting while you here?

Bobby (pretending to be absolutely clueless about South Africa)
Not really, this-and-that...

Pablo
What kind of thing do you like doing?

Bobby
Haha, depends I guess.

Pablo
Haha, well there's a lot to see...

Bobby (sarcastic but SO fucken flirty)
Yes, haha - well maybe not right here in the gym!

Pablo (laughing)
Haha, no... but somewhere maybe?

Bobby
You got an hour to kill?

Pablo
Yeah....

Bobby
Do you have a car?

Pablo
Let me get my gym bag and I follow you.

I say that that's how the conversation went, but of course I'm not sure.

What I do know was that it didn't last for more than two minutes and what is sure is that he ended up underneath me.

We interacted in the bedroom and again in the shower because we'd both just walked out of the gym, mid-exercise and still a bit sweaty, having collected our togs and left.

I still cannot believe that I picked up a guy at the tricep machine at the gym.

Driving back to the hotel I was convinced that we has going to take a left turn behind me when I took a right.

So at one point during our period of interaction, I lifted my eyes to heaven and said "God, I so fucking love you at this point."

Afterwards we showered and he began to put his clothes on but I stopped him.

"Wait... listen. I am supposed to meet friends for lunch but I'm late - and they're SO not going to believe my excuse, so do you mind standing over there, next to the bed?"

"Thanks mate and maybe see you at the gym sometime."

"Haha, I hope you don't get into much trouble."

We kiss, he leaves, I dress and go for lunch.

Picasso face

2008-03-02T16:54:00.004Z

So apropos of absolutely nothing... here is a picture of two guys who're drunk.

The one on the left is take-your-breath-away beautiful. The one on the right is just me.

Swoon.

The picture actually stresses me out slightly. Look at my double chins. Or rather don't. And why does my head look enormous?

And by the way and this really is something completely different.

I am sitting in a restaurant in the "gay village" in Cape Town. Village being the operative word.

Anyway, at the next table are two rather short and round white men who're, at the very least, in their 60s. They look like an elderly, retiring gay pair on a holiday from Germany, perhaps?

Also sitting at the table is a very young-looking black guy. He is wearing Caterpillar shoes with no socks, camo trousers and a white checked shirt.

I reckon he's going to pocket an overnight fee.

Please God, don't ever let me end up like them.

I'm fucked

2008-03-02T12:27:00.003Z

There are some things you should only do on holiday.

And it's those things that I have been doing for the last three days.

Right now it's 2.30pm and I am fucked. So fucking fucked you have no fucking idea.

Not fucked as in fucked but fucked as in fucked.

Like exhausted, feel like shit, a bit sunburnt, tired, hungover fucked.

So fucking hungover.

It was Cape Town Pride yesterday and ... I actually can't bring myself to type complete sentences, spelling is also proving a problem so I'll precis instead.

1/ Cape Town Pride
2/ Went with Ian and Andrew and a whole load of other people
3/ While there met cousin's ex-girlfriend (cousin is a lesbian). Her and I always got on really well even though she's a lesbian
4/ Ex-girlfriend's brother is there
5/ Ex-girlfriend's brother and I start chatting
6/ Ex-girlfriend's brother and I decide that we're the only two interesting people at Pride so we spend the afternoon together talking and drinking
7/ Ex-girlfriend's brother and I get on really well.
8/ The punchline for this segment: Ex-girlfriend's brother is a model. That is all he does. He is the most beautiful, handsome, drop-dead-gorgeous (whatever happened to Republica?) anyway, he is the most beautiful 24-year-old man I have ever seen in - well, this week anyway. I was mesmerised by his - I would describe it as boyish beauty.

Ex-girlfriend's brother shall now be known as Drew. Which is his real name, and isn't that just so fucking obvious / appropriate.

Drew is straight.

Yes, I have pictures of him which I must find a way of showing you. So anyway - Drew and I are talking and getting progressively more drunk because Drew gets drinks bought for him.

And since we're sitting together - and people don't ask but assume - I get bought drinks too because people think we're a couple. And of course I'm so fucking totally happy with that.

So Drew doesn't have a girlfriend because - well he did until about two weeks ago bla bla.

And the conversation turns to boys because there is a guy dancing in front of us in a very tight pair of hotpants, fucked off his face.

Drew asks me if I find "that" attractive.

I say no. I start scanning around for who's my type (trying not to scream "you, you fucking idiot!")

Anyway - so we're talking, talking and Drew points out a guy who he thinks is good-looking.

And we're a bit drunk and so the conversation goes in that direction.

We find out that once Drew had "something with some other people" in Milan or where-ever the fuck and there was some guy-on-guy amongst the girl-on-guy etc. It was a foursome.

He says it's not that he didn't like it with the other guy, it's just that it didn't interest him in the slightest.

The upshot to all of this rambling is that ex-girlfriend is more pissed than we are so she walks home (the Pride March Party is near where we both live).

Ian and Andrew and others have gone to have some dinner.

I snogged Drew behind a tree, he used his tongue first.

Though only just a smooch-smooch and I purposefully didn't do anything with my hands because I just thought "if I freak him out by touching his bum, he will stop."

And the best thing in the whole fucking universe is that just as we're about to say good-bye he doesn't say "please don't say anything to anyone."

And he doesn't say "you know, I don't usually do that." And he doesn't say "you do realise that I really am straight."

He says "I could tell in the beginning that you were coming onto me so I thought I'd make your day."

And then the killer line: "that was nice but I'm really not interested in other guys. If I was I would come back to yours. It would be nice to hook up again sometime."

We swap numbers.

I don't want to see him again actually because anything now would be a disappointment. I think he really is straight. Well, 95% straight at least.

Yes, yes... I have loads of pictures. I need to stick them all up. And I need to tell you about one of the most shameless things I have yet done.

It's one thing you can only do when you're on holiday. That's next...

Picture Bobby 4

2008-02-28T21:39:00.008Z

Yuck, yuck, fucky yucky...

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

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

Yuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway...

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

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

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

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

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

Aren't you getting a serious LA vibe here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bronx Bobby

2008-02-27T10:11:00.002Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He should have so got down off there.

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

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

Which leads me nicely onto this...

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

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

How on earth do they, um?!

?!!

Free for cash

2008-02-25T21:05:00.003Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says "but they're free."

Me:"What, free!?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture Bobby 3

2008-02-24T21:11:00.015Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...cheers, bitches.

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

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

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

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That has never happened before.

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

Moving on...

On the way back from the beach, disaster struck.

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

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

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

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

The temperature outside is about 36C.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what you call a holiday...

Picture Bobby 2

2008-02-23T14:47:00.009Z

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

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

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

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

Hey, ho!

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

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

It is beauty on a gargantuan scale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was bizarre and ridiculous in one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of the songs I recognised:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The more things change...

Picture Bobby 1

2008-02-22T11:50:00.009Z

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

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

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

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

Er, yes you can.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More pics to come shortly...

Hang 10

2008-02-21T20:20:00.002Z

Internet speed in Africa was never going to be good.

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

However...

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

Can I just blow my own for one moment?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today I:

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

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

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

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

This is South Africa, everyone has staff.

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

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

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

Done

2008-02-21T00:49:00.003Z

Bitches, I am here...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comedy or drama

2008-02-20T06:40:00.002Z

There is a very fine line between comedy and drama.

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

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

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

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

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

Why do I say all of this?

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

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

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

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

4 engines 4 longhaul

2008-02-19T18:59:00.012Z

First...

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

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

Unfortunately there is some sad truth in the above.

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

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

Bla bla bla... work schmork.

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

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

Check it out bitches...

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

I am SO seriously resisting the temptation so badly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't lose your head

2008-02-18T18:49:00.009Z

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway - moving on.

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

This morning I tried ventured out again...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now can I ask you something?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving on...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, I'm going to the gym now.

I will pack later. Or whatever.

Commandments

2008-02-17T10:35:00.006Z

In South Africa at least 50 people are murdered every day. It has overtaken Colombia, once dubbed The Murder Capital of the World.

South Africa is also known as The Rape Capital of the World.

Theft, armed robbery and car hijacking is also rife. So much so that some insurance companies refuse to insure certain makes of VW Golf because they are so frequently hijacked.

One in 10 people in South Africa is HIV positive.

South Africa is one of the few places in the world where, before you go on holiday there, you have to say a little prayer.

I have to write these things down because it makes it slightly more tangible, like a list of commandments.

* While on holiday I will NOT drink and drive. Not after one drink or ten.
(18,000 people die every year on South Africa's roads in drink-and-drive accidents)

* I will NOT get into other cars where people are drunk. I will repeat the following to myself ad nauseum: "Bobby, get licensed cabs if you're pissed."

* While on holiday I will NOT drive late at night. As much as I hate it, I will sleep on couches etc.

* While on holiday I will NOT buy ____. I will not be with anyone who's buying _____. I will not go with anyone (friend or not) who goes off to buy ____.

* While on holiday I will NOT fuck around.

* I will NOT "go back" with someone I don't know. No matter how shameless it is, I will get their number and tell them that I've passed it onto a friend and I will tell a friend where I'm going.

Cape Town is a big and dangerous but wonderful and beautiful place. Just be careful.

This is going to be a wonderful holiday and you've been looking forward to it for ages, so don't be fucking stupid.
Repeat: Do NOT be fucking stupid.

Hours to go...

2008-02-16T21:30:00.000Z

When you're young you think "one day I want to..." but then when you're older you realise that there's nothing stopping you.

When you're young you think "one day I'm going to spend the whole day eating chocolate in bed" and then you do it and realise that it's not as cool as you thought it would be.

Have you ever heard of the Folsom Street Fair? I always thought it looked a little too edgy / destroyed but actually...

You think to yourself - well, it looks kinda fun so why would I not go to see what it's all about?

Has anyone been? What is it like? I think I should go and check it out...

That aside - I'm at work, typing up all the crap from the last three days.

Then, at 11.30pm when the cab arrives, I will be on holiday.

So officially there are just two hours left and I will be on holiday. I keep repeating this to myself to assuage the fact that I'm at work on a Saturday night.

And can I just say that in my composite image, can we all agree that the guy in the top right hand corner is like hyper-fit?

A wee dram

2008-02-15T07:40:00.000Z

What we know:
(Don't worry), I'm alive. (Thank you to the person who mailed to see if I was okay.)
In the last 60 hours, only eight of them have been asleep.
British Airways are crap.
I'm hungover.

Er... pictures and text will follow this very brief service shortly.

May God bless you and all that ride in you. See you later today bitches...

Later that evening - we have an update...
A film crew can't just pitch up anywhere and start filming so we - three of us - have to spend two days driving around Scotland scouting locations / begging farm owners for permission / getting lost.

Here are a few pictures of what went down...

This is British Airways on the way up to Glasgow. Bla bla airplane bla bla...Thankfully it didn't "go down."

For the first night we stay at the Glasgow HHilton. (This is the way they've started spelling their name?!)

I like this hotel because of the view from my bedroom window which I am transfixed by.

First I imagine that I'm in the movie Crash, like James Spader having sex with someone on the balcony of their apartment near a busy freeway.

Then I put on Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi and pretend I am a straight blue-collar guy who works as a welder and this is the view from my council flat.

For a moment I really believe I live in Detroit but then room service arrives.

This is breakfast the next morning which pleases me greatly.

I am particularly excited when it's pointed out that there are at least three to four bits of dead animal on my plate.

Here's the inventory of death which I take great delight in scoffing:
cow - beef sausages
sheep - haggis
pig - bacon and black pudding
hen - scrambled eggs

After breakfast we begin the long trek.

At some point we end up behind this lorry going very slowly. Although only one of us has been into the Canadian countryside we all agree that it feels like we're in Canada (check those trees etc.)

This is not really important because we're not looking for places that look like Canada. Moving on.

Well, hoorah! In the distance is the kind of country house we're looking for so we try and make our way to it.

Of course it goes without saying really. Instead I'll let our hired Audi's satnav do the talking...

In the end, finally, after 2 days of driving around Scotland we manage to put boxes in just about every box marked "found" and "permission". Thank fuck.

And we only managed to get stuck in the mud once.

Well, it was all going fine until we got to Glasgow International where it turns out our flight's delayed by two hours.

So we sit in the terminal drinking away the hours. By the time we got onto the plane at about 10pm I was quite pissed.

But of course it shouldn't end there...

This towards the end of the flight - only an hour long - and count 'em.

Me and colleague with at least 5 cans of Carlsberg.

Luckily the plane was quite empty so the airhostesses were more than happy to ply us with booze to keep us tanked and them entertained.

Actually, I remember now - the reason we got drunk was to try and hide the fact that all three of us were alone, sitting in an airport terminal on Valentine's Day.

Hey ho.

Finally the Gatwick Express at 1am.

We get on, lairy and drunk, making the following statement very loudly and pointedly at least three people who we walk past: "isn't it ridiculous when one person on a train sits at a four-seat table and is too selfish to share it with three others."

Stomping through the train we manage to find two empty tables next to each other.

It's petty I know, but when you're drunk for some reason doing this is funny...

Of course tired families and exhausted couples walk past, wanting to sit with each other but thinking; "God, so selfish..."

So that's where I've been for the last three days - on a mini-holiday before the Main Event on Tuesday.

I took the laptop with me but the HHilton charge £15 to log onto the net! They're having a fucken laugh, and the rural South Lanarkshire (area in Scotland) isn't really the greatest Wifi hotspot either.

Scotland is beautiful, I ate haggis (stuffed pigs entrails) and black pudding (dried blood thingy), bombed around in an Audi S6 because Hertz got the make of car we needed wrong (Audi S6 = fucking rocket) but the best bit about the whole thing was getting pissed last night.

The beer was so cold and so crisp, like nectar.

Tonight at the gym I did about 200 sit-ups and am now sipping bottled water.

Will somebody please bring me a fucking San Miguel now please...

What made me

2008-02-12T22:08:00.000Z

After London Preppy mentioned The Trunks that he and I both have, a few of you came to visit me for the first time.

I guess you saw the photo I posted yesterday in the gym and had a look around and saw the "fat" one I posted a few days ago and have asked me what happened / how did I do it?

So how did I do it? Simple, I started going to the gym.

The why bit is a slightly longer story...

Growing up I had every thing I wanted.

I went to a private school, my parents paid for University until I dropped out, they bought me a flat and cars which I repeatedly crashed.

The problem with my mum and dad is that - well, I hate to say this but it's taken my sister and I years to fully accept it - but they weren't very good at being parents.

This is very personal - but fuckit - I might as well tell you since I haven't really told anyone else.

My dad was bullied very badly at school.

He was dyslexic and his parents (my grandparents) just thought that my dad was a bit slow so they sent him off to boarding school in the middle of nowhere.

It's amazing and depressing to think that the effects of what bullies did to my dad at school, trickled all the way down and affected me so many years later.

The result what happened at his school is that my dad never shows any emotion because he never wants to look weak. He simply cannot do it.

In the 29 years that I have known him and the 26 years my sister has - he has never once said to either of us "I love you."

All my sister and I ever wanted was for my dad to tell us that he loved and appreciated us. Except he never did.

Instead he bought us presents to try and show his love - because of what had been done to him he couldn't bring himself to say it.

He paid for everything and was there to write out cheques when we asked him to.

But when you have everything there's still a void. New cars and flats are not what I wanted from him.

And so you can see how I started to skid off the rails.

I started to drink and drink and I dropped out of University and partied and drank. And I got fat and depressed and hated myself.

Of course it was even worse being gay, because you would go out clubbing, for example, and be surrounded by really fit guys while you, the bloater, were stood in the corner.

It all came to a head on New Year's Even 2004/5.

I had been out a party, having spent the last three weeks pissed and eating chips / kebabs / takeaways.

I got home at around 3am, pissed and badly depressed.

I just thought;

"Bobby - why do you feel like shit? It's because you look like shit.
Why do you look like shit? Because you drink too much and you eat too much.
Why is that? Because you're trying to self destruct in spite of your parents."

And that was my epiphany. I was self-destructing in spite of my dad.

I soon as I realised that, it stopped.

Suddenly there was no point to what I was doing.

I was on a stage doing a dance of destruction to get my dad to notice me and I suddenly realised that he wasn't even in the audience watching.

He doesn't know what he put me though and I can't ever tell him because he just wouldn't understand. He would say "but we gave you everything you wanted."

All I would say is "Dad, all I ever wanted was for you to tell me that you loved me. Except you never did."

A few months after that evening I was flicking through a Men's Health magazine looking at the fit guys with sixpacks and I just said to myself; "fuckit - I want to look like that too.." And that's how I was able to get on with the gym-thing.

Simple as.

In my new skin

2008-02-11T20:03:00.000Z

I just want to say that in the gym tonight there was some of the hottest messes I have seen in a while.

It's good when you have hot guys in the gym because they inspire you to work out to look as good as they are.

However, it's not all good so could you excuse me for just one moment while I address a specific issue? Thanks...

Memo: To the guy in the weights section with the enormous stomach who was picking up weights that were too heavy for him.

Mate, it's fat! It's not muscle. You were getting in the way of me and the hot guy next to me and you were just putting stress on your joints when you should be doing is cardio.

Wearing a Gold's Gym t-shirts does NOT transform you into Arnold Schwarzenegger. It is not muscle - it is fat! Now get on the treadmill, bitch.

Love, Bobby x

Anyway, sorry about that but it needed to be said.

Moving on - well, only into the changeroom.

While there I shamelessly snapped this photo...

This is because one week from tomorrow I will be at the airport to go to Cape Town.

Everytime I go back to South Africa it's has always been my goal to arrive looking the best I can.

This time, for the first time, I think I can put a tick in that box.

The only thing I'm not happy with is my stomach. More specifically my lower abs.

My best parts are chest and arms. Sometimes I think I spend too much time doing pecs.

Anyway, I will say that I didn't flex my abs properly because I was so in a hurry to take the picture. Hence it looks like there's a spare tyre around my waist. And the light makes it worse than it is...

So I feel good and I think I'm ready to hit the beach. For the next week I'm doing a mixture of cardio, abs and swimming.

Leaving the gym I see this protein shaker in the gutter. I like the symbolism...

And while typing all of this Siouxie and the Banshees have been blasting the following words into my ear...
Rising up through the ashes and grime
A new me on the other side
Hello, Hello, I'm breaking through
This old skin

Hello, Hello, I'm hungry for some new skin
Hello, it's me, I'm coming for you in my new skin

Sunday spit-roasting

2008-02-10T16:15:00.000Z

The Apple shop on Regent Street is always busy but I had to go there to buy a cable to hook my stereo up to the laptop so I could use it to play iTunes.

And I needed a mouse too.

While there I see the MacBook Air which makes me long for it. I can't get near one because there are too many tourists using the shop as an internet cafe which is very irritating.

Instead I decide to play with an iPod Touch because I think I want one instead of the iPhone.

So I'm playing around with the Touch and go to the web application which opens on a Facebook account page.

This is obviously what someone called Christina W______ was playing with on this particular Touch before I picked it up.

Yee-ha!

Of course the temptation is far too great.

In situations like this the mantra "less is more" is important so I do three things...

1/ Poke a whole bunch of people who Christina knows
2/ Write a rude comment on one of Christina's friend's walls
3/ Change Christina's status update

So her status reads something like:
"Christina feels completely sexy after being spit-roasted. Thanks John and Martin - that was hot..."

And I type this message on Martin's wall (whoever he is):

I don't know why I find this so funny but I do.

I think what amuses me most is imaging what people who don't really know Christina will think, when they see what she's supposed to have written.

I leave the Apple shop with a ridiculous grin on my face.

So I come back to the gold (or chocolate, according to aussiebum - who are they trying to kid?) trunks that are still staring at me from on top of the chest of drawers where they're in a pile with the new underwear.

There is something about them that is strangely compelling.

Having said that I would NEVER wear them in public I feel that I am back-peddling now because I'm not sure if they look absolutely ridiculous.

After the pictures yesterday I did some tidying up with the clippers and I have to say that I do think they look quite fit.

And I'm not sure if this is me losing sight of reality (and decency laws) or if they really do look like a cheap costume from a Z-grade porn movie. Which is maybe the point to them.

Stop winking at me

2008-02-09T11:08:00.000Z

This morning, after a long day at work yesterday, the doorbell goes to wake me up.

The postman has a large package for me, which he handles so well. Can we all admire my large package please...

"Ooh, nice package. Gosh, what a large package etc.."

This padded envelope contains underwear and swimming costumes I ordered for Seth Efrika, which has taken a bloody long to arrive. It's from Australia which means only one thing...

These aussieBum trunks are here!

Whoop, whoop.

Now, from this point on you're going to have to avert your eyes at some points if you're a little squeamish.

So in the picture above we see the pair of trunks I ordered as they appear in the online catalogue. But do they look like that in real life?

Well yes, but... (please excuse the legs, they need clipping I know)

You can see my goddam religion!

I was going to show you what the second pair looks like but they're even worse.

There is absolutely no padding in them. Actually, fuckit - here is the second pair:

I'm sorry to disappoint the poor fuckers who'll be waiting for me on Clifton Beach but there is absolutely no way I am wearing these in public.

Can you imagine?! A half a millimetre of cloth saves you and your modesty. This picture is so close-up because in proportion it looks even more explicit.

Even so, you can quite obviously see two peaches and a banana!

I think I'm going to have to go back to the drawingboard with regards swimming costumes.

This is fine, because I did budget time for reassessments and adjustments.

I just think, unless you have a body like this guy below, there should be a moratorium on wearing pants like that in public. And I think that extends to me too...

Hmm... and looking at this guy and then my picture at the top makes me think I need to do legs.

So anyway, on a scale of 1 to 10, we're set 6 for swimwear and 9 for underwear...

No, no... don't you worry. I will say it...

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

Finally, on the Gay Scale I think also this post is the gayest post ever on my whole entire blog. Which makes it pretty fucken gay.
This is because there is:
Showing off
Unnecessary sexual innuendo (postman handling package etc.)
Partial nudity
"Designer" underwear
Some element of self-loathing.

Tomorrow we will ungay things slightly...

Thank you

2008-02-06T23:19:00.000Z

I am the world's worst sentimentalist and I sometimes wish I wasn't.

I hold onto things that mean something to look back at them, usually with an anxious longing. I find memories uneasy but comforting.

I've been paging through old diaries and wondering where all that time went.

Sometimes I wish I could just stop all the clocks and live in the here and now for ever.

Diary, February 5th 2003
"Went to Swiss Cottage job centre for interview. Possibly something at Caledonian club in Victoria. Maybe promising. Dunno if I wanna work in a private members club though... who knows - would be funny if they employed a South African to work in a Scottish Men's club. Maybe surname might swing it...
Send copy of my passport to Adecco in Oxford Street.
Interview for Trainee Studio Manager tomorrow at BBC World Service (tel: 0207 826 7804)
Ref: 58756WW
hope BBC job goes well. am sick of applying.
Money left: £450. Must find job NB!"

Diary, February 6th 2008
"Went to gym this morning and swam 100 lengths - took 45 minutes. Jubilee Line up the spout.
Sat all day writing stupid scripts - have completely run out of inspiration. Had camera crew moaning because we keep shifting shoot time tomorrow. Whingeing bastards.
Saw Ben The Rent at gym tonight. Feel sorry for him... he looked upset for some reason.
Got home and wrote entry into online diary that people who I've never met read - and I hope enjoy.
Money left till pay-day on 15th: £200. Fuck. Must calm down spending NB!"

----
I don't know who's out there and I don't know if they exist but sometimes I like to think that there are people watching over us, helping us.

Looking back at what I did five years, in 2003, makes me slightly sad, because I remember, the day before that interview I was quite stressed.

And looking back makes me so thankful at the same time too.

It could easily have been so different.

Things could not have worked out as they have, I could have not been sitting here (god knows where I'd be) and you wouldn't be reading this.

Sometimes you have to say a little thank you to everyone in the Universe who's given your life a little push forward.

Thank you to those whose invisible hands have steered you in the right direction and those who've made sure that you're happy and healthy five years on.

Of course although I don't really know you and you don't really know me, I still think I should thank those who've made it possible for the paths in our lives to cross.

Tonight, I guess that that's what I am thankful for.

Definite articles

2008-02-05T20:19:00.000Z

There are two very important issues we have to discuss actually.

The first is a fashion trend that is truly awful.

I have noticed it more and more and it seems everyone who wears glasses has a pair of these...

The frames of the lenses extend in two separate arms to the plastic point that goes on the ear.

You must have seen them. They're all the rage and I think they are hideous.

Holy smokes, they're so bloody ugly.

I don't know what it is about that style but it's just unspeakably awful.

If anyone wears those type of glasses please tell me what possessed you to buy them.

Did you look at the arms and go "ohmygod, that totally out there design-wise, I have to have them..."

I don't know why I hate them so much but I just can't handle even looking at them.

To me they say; "crashingly middle class and boring, thinks shitty avant-garde design = trendy (I hate that word) and fashionable."

This style of glasses is nearly as bad as the other two things I cannot bear. To the point where, if I see someone with either of these, I have to move away from them.

I write them off as a person, no matter what. They are:

1/ Buttoned-down collars. (ohmygod - words cannot even begin to describe what I think of people who have shirts with buttoned-down collars).
2/ White collars on coloured shirts, i.e. a blue shirt with a white collar, or pink shirt with a white collar.

Okay, I have to stop because all this talk is making me feel queasy.

Moving on...

The other thing that really riled me this evening, to the point where I was so close to pulling the passenger alarm on the Tube, was the fucking train driver.

At every tube station the driver came on the PA and in this deadpan idiot voice went:

"Please stand clear of doors. Please stand clear of doors."

I was nearly about to explode.

It's "please stand clear of THE doors. Stand clear of THE doors." Not fucking "stand clear of doors".

A door is a definite article you stupid fucking cnut, it's needs a THE in front of it. Aaaaahhhh.... It's "THE doors"...

Fuck!

It really wound me up.

Doors closing, beep starts and this stupid fucking whiney voice blasts; "stand clear of doors."

Goddamit.

I don't know if this is a sign that I am over-stressed and am in so desperate need of a holiday or that I am so underwhelmed in life that these are the things that bother me.

Ripped off

2008-02-04T20:04:00.000Z

Oh lordy...

Yes I woke up with a stinking hangover this morning but I am on a beach in about two weeks' time and quite literally, there is nothing that can put me in a bad mood now.

I am bad mood-proof.

What has helped it?
1/ Remember I told you a few weeks ago I told you about my wars? Well, I have won them all, the last victory was Friday when £437 was transferred into my account from First Great Western trains.
2/ Work is basically just a pleasure because The Week of Hell is over. Basically, I had to endure the Week of Hell to make sure that these two weeks would be easy-peasy.

Fuckit, this is boring - let's get to what I really want to say.

Okay, now on my cupboard door is a picture of the British TV presenter Philip Olivier which stares out at me every morning.

I've stuck him there because physically he is a lot like me.

Like me, he doesn't have a massively tiny waist, he isn't incredibly ripped and is not scrawny either.

In short, he is an attainable goal and if I try hard enough, I can look like him.

So how much do I look like him?

Well - I am going to post this before regret starts to creep in.

This is what my stomach looks like, compared to his.

Yeah, there's still a little way to go before there's a definite sixpack but to me, it rates okay to good.

As you can see I still need to lose some of the fat on my lower abdomen.

I don't think it's bad at all when you consider that around three years ago it all looked like this:

Yeah? See, it can be done if you keep at it.

Some weeks you go to the gym and you have a great week and you can definitely see a change.

Other times you go and nothing seems have to happened.

Do not despair. And do not give up.

At my heaviest I was 110kgs (242lbs), I am now 81kgs (178lbs).

You will never leave the gym looking like a Baywatch lifeguard if you go once and get depressed that nothing has changed.

Persist and it will come.

My stomach is back in a T-shirt but I'll give you another one in two weeks time. You'll see... if you keep going, it will come.

And the most important thing?

If I can manage it, anyone can. Now do it.

Hup! huo! Yo!

2008-02-03T21:02:00.000Z

I don't know ho wmany motngths it is but I am drunk.

I am fall over plesy loosy pissdy poopey drunkey wunky.

And it's Sunay night.

I just wanna say tha I lve you all.

And if I could I woudl give oyuo a big group hug.

I met some friends for a Looooong Sunday llunch.

Bobby loves you. No seriously.

I feel like I have been lstening to too mcu Eurythmics and I wanna give you a big love/

Whatever.

I am oing to drnk some water abd then I am going to go t bed.
OKay shh...

THat's it now.

byee.

(from Bobster) x x x x

Retro calls and cats

2008-02-01T23:26:00.000Z

Thank fuck that week is over.

And hello! Who can believe it's already February?! Fucking hell...

The Friday evening ends at around 8pm in the bar at work as colleagues stand around and get pissed. I drank lemonade and orange.

About 30 minutes later I am in the gym, in the corner like Bridget Jones running on the treadmill.

You'd think at 9pm on a Friday night the gym would be empty. Au contraire....

It's fucking packed with squadrons of hot straight boys pumping themselves up for the night ahead.

Now though I am home, relaxing on my bed and typing this while listening to Eurythmics.

This is where I am...

On the left I can see the light and a glass of water. One should always keep hydrated.

Then we have my iPod charging. Yes, I am a ninny and keep it in plastic and this is why...

(From left)
1/ Broke after I used it in the pool in Ibiza and it got wet
2/ Broke after... actually I dunno why it broke. All I know is that it doesn't work
3/ Down the loo (not because it was a Sony Ericsson - it was an accident)
4/ Dropped a weight on it in the gym

So that's why I have started to wrap my gadgets in shatterproof plastic coverings.

These broken phones and iPods are quick-to-hand because they live in the second drawer of the chest you can see on the left.

Anyway, then we have the Mac and my very posh Sennheiser headphones which make even shite music sound amazing.

Out of them is playing I Love To (Listen To Beethoven) from Eurythmics' album 'Savage'.

I love this track because it is very 80s and also just odd. Not because it's shite.

I took a swipe at Sony Ericsson phones seven lines up, but who remembers when they were just Ericsson phones?

The Ericsson T18 was the first phone I ever bought myself. I used to think it was so fucking cool with that foldey-flap-thing.

It was exactly like the one on the right:

If you ever had one of these phones, remember the stupid aerial would always break off.

Actually, the first phone I ever had was some old Motorola brick my parents gave me.

Anyway, after the T18 those who were ubercool could have the T28. The screen used to glow this radioactive green colour.

I wonder if you can still get these phones anywhere?

I think vintage mobile phones should make a comeback. While we're at it, I reckon SuperMarioLand on GameBoy (the first one with the monochrome screen) needs to resurface.

And who could forget the hottest toy in the history of the world...

Check out the definition on that left arm.

And then here is Lion-O from behind. Ohmygod is that not the hottest ass, fit legs and who cannot be impressed with his amazing lat definition?

Hello! This isn't just a plastic toy. This is a life's ambition.

Sleep work gym sleep work gym blog sleep

2008-01-31T21:51:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

On that subject there are three developments...

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

Has started to bring a really hot friend with him.

What we know of the friend:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All together now: Aaaaah!

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

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

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

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

I can't remember actually.

Listen, do you mind if I go to bed?

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

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