Monday, 31 December 2007

Monday 31/12/07

The Greek satellite TV that Mummy and Daddy pay for me to watch here in England includes a porn channel.  On Sunday 30th December at 2200 the porn channel is showing the cinematic masterpiece that is Santa's Sluts, where I get the following captions.

In the first picture, I have tastefully added a little snowman to spare us all the shame.



In the second picture, the subtitles read "I'm loving the North Pole". 



Throughout the rest of the scene Santa keeps the beard and hat on, loses his clothes, Santa's Slut loses everything, keeps repeating "oh Santa it's so big" (it wasn't) and I guess what I'm trying to say is Happy New Year.

Sunday, 30 December 2007

Sunday 30/12/07

On Friday Scott starts emailing me that he’s about to go to the gym so of course I tell him if Aussie PT is there he should give me a full report back, I need something, anything to get me through my second-to-last day in Athens. 

So a couple of hours later he sends me a text and tells me that Aussie PT is there and they spoke to each other.  Then I make a leap to the phone and call Scott and find out the following: 

-       Scott goes to the gym with Donnell.  Aussie PT is in the changing room when they walk in, wearing only his underwear.  His underwear is a pair of white briefs.  We do not have brand information 

-       Donnell gives Aussie PT a 10/10 for body but he is not convinced by the whole thing, mainly because Aussie PT is not Brazilian (this is a problem Donnell has) and also he thinks he’s straight 

-       Scott and Donnell go to work out, about 50 minutes later Aussie PT emerges from the changing room all clean and preened.  He always takes bloody ages in the changing rooms apparently (according to Scott), I’m starting to wonder how many different types of moisturiser he uses 

-       At this point Scott walks up to Aussie PT and chats to him and tells him that his friend (i.e. me) is interested in having a session with him and can we have his card?  Aussie PT gives Scott his card and also takes my number 

-       During this conversation Scott also finds out that Aussie PT is originally from a different country but grew up in Australia and he has now lived in London for less than a year 

I don’t want to write anymore about him to be honest, because who knows who might be reading this and whether it might get to him.  Anyway, Scott also finds out his name of course (it’s on his card you know), so once he tells me that I log on to facebook straightaway and look him up. 

I do find him but his profile is private so I can’t stalk him very much, the picture is shirtless though, he has his arms behind his head and he’s sticking his tongue out.  I look at his friends list and they look quite a normal mix, the friends of a straight guy to be honest.  He only has one friend that I know (who is gay), but Donnell’s theory is that this guy is one of his clients as a personal trainer – he lives in the area that Aussie PT’s gym is.  So in conclusion, Aussie PT is most likely straight, and that’s cool of course, I’ll still do the training session with him because he really knows what he’s doing and I need new shoulders thank you very much. 

On Friday evening I go downtown to Athens to meet my friend Christina.  Christina is the only other person in Athens apart from Alex (who I met on Thursday) that I’ve kept in touch. 

My Dad drives me to town but I’m already stressing about my return home: it will be too late to catch the train back and I’ll have to get a taxi.  Interaction with Greek taxi drivers is one of me weakest points, but more of this in a second. 

So I meet Christina and we go to a bar and Christina orders a glass of red wine (or is it white?) and I order two bottles of sparkling water at which point the waitress pulls a face at me and asks me what? like what I ordered is completely unheard of, which I suppose it is in a country where chain-smoking, thick Greek coffee and hard liquor consumption is compulsory from the age of 14.  With Christina we talk about Greek singers, our love lives, Roisin Murphy and Bjork, how frequently you’re supposed to have sex, H&M, my blog, Aussie PT, infidelity. 

Then we leave and I attempt to hail a taxi, but the way this works in Athens is that you stop the taxi, you tell them where you need to go and then they decide if they fancy driving there.  Also, if you’re lucky enough for them to want to take you, you have to give them directions because no taxi driver knows where anything is. 

So I finally get one, I have to say the name of the area where I live 5 times before he understands (taxi drivers seem to have a particular issue with my fucked up accent), then he asks me which way I want to go, I tell him I have no idea, we set off, I call my Mum and ask for directions, I start playing with my phone to stop him from talking to me, we get home, I get in, avoid talking to my sister who’s feeling particularly needy and chatty at 0200 in the morning, I go to bed, stay awake until 0500 thinking about changing my diet, freak out about this, take a Valium, pass out, wake up at 0930. 

Finally, to conclude the Athens report, here are a couple more pictures from The Bathroom Sessions.  At the best of times I don’t need much of a reason to take pictures of myself, so imagine when I’m stuck in Athens and I have nothing better to do. 

Here’s picture one and in picture one we can see a quite formulaic shirtless pose (this must be the 3,476th I’ve posted on the blog), but the highlight is at the top of the picture where you can spot my ridiculous 15-year-old “beard”, which happened because I didn’t take my shaving kit in Athens. 

 

EDIT: What an idiot that I am!  I have been posting un-airbrushed, un-Photoshopped pictures on here for months, when I could turn this (look above) into this (look below).  Thanks to the very kind reader who went into the effort of making these small enhancements, even though I'm really scared to think what a Photoshopped picture of Aussie PT would look like, considering how he already looks in real life.

Here’s picture two (without Photoshop magic) and in picture two we can see what happens when you push your stomach out, i.e. your abs look better but your chest and arms disappear.  It’s a trade-off and I guess what we learn from this picture is that you can’t have it all, unless you are Aussie PT in which case you CAN have it all and you can take some of mine too.

Saturday, 29 December 2007

Saturday 29/12/07

On Thursday daytime I can’t remember exactly what goes on, but I’m pretty sure it involves watching TV, reading past issues of the numerous fitness, lifestyle and décor magazines my family appears to be addicted to and avoiding to eat chocolate.  Which brings me to my New Year resolutions. 

I have never made New Year resolutions and never intended to, because I just think it’s a bit pathetic.  It reminds me of an overweight 33-year-old Heat reader (female, blatantly) who goes around before Christmas telling all her friends her New Year resolutions are to diet so she can drop two dress sizes, stop drinking sambuca shots when she’s out and not sleep with men she meets in suburban clubs on the first night.  Then, 9am on the 1st of January finds her on the bus back home with a splitting headache and a KFC Twister sticking out of her Accessorise handbag, having fucked Tony on the couch in his pokey Dagenham East flat. 

So yeah, this year my resolutions are: a) stop eating chocolate and sweets and b) to actually start making a real effort in the gym, where I’ll actually stay longer than 25 minutes and try to break into sweat for once. 

We’ll see how these go then.  Oh yeah, also I’ve decided that I’m going to book one session with the Aussie PT for myself, to get some shoulders tips, because he has the best shoulders in West London and shoulders is my weakest point.  

During that personal training session of course my aim will be to become his friend, an indispensable companion that he can hang around with now that he’s new in London and a future training partner of course, because I really want to continue working out with him, but not fork out £50/hour or whatever it is that he charges.  So I’ll have to attempt to be charming and win him over.  This might be a difficult task, because I’m completely out of practise – I usually try to turn people off with my behaviour.  The last time I wanted to be somebody’s friend was with Matty, but that was back in 2004. 

Anyway, back to Athens then.  On Thursday evening my friend Alex comes over to visit.  Alex is one of only two people I still know in Athens, and I don’t share DNA with.  I’ve known him for about 15 years now. 

Alex is very helpful on this Thursday evening, because he plays around with my Mac and he manages to connect me to the internet, by stealing our neighbours’ wireless connection.  And this is why I started posting the blog that day. 

At this point I’d like to take back everything bad I’ve ever said about the Greeks – evidently they are an amazing people that can provide me with free internet connection (because they’re so fucking retarded and don’t know they have to put a password on their service otherwise the whole block can share it). 

By Friday daytime I’m starting to get extremely fed up with being in Athens.  My family are really getting on my nerves, I’m missing the gym, I need to get back to London. 

Highlights of why the family are annoying me are: 

-       My sister must be the only 30-year-old in the Northern hemisphere who doesn’t have any real responsibilities or tasks.  She’s somebody who doesn’t need to set her alarm clock in the morning.  Actually, this isn’t true.  On Friday, I hear her alarm go off at 1100.  1100!  Who sets their alarm clock for 11 o’clock in the morning?  What exactly is the danger there?  That you might sleep through to 3 o’clock in the afternoon?  It’s unbelievable.  And it’s not like she had done anything the night before.  She just goes out on week nights whenever or just stays in and watches TV until 2-3am. 

-       A general lack of privacy around the house.  These people live across 4 floors in a huge house and they still manage to be within 2 metres of each other at all points.  I’m at in a room reading or typing this or whatever, and a different person walks in every 10 minutes and asks me how it’s going and what’s new.  There hasn’t been a single time I’ve been in the toilet and somebody hasn’t knocked on the door (despite there being another 5).  I’m really amazed how I ever managed to have a wank when I was 16

 Anyway, during my time in Athens this Christmas I do manage to sneak into the bathroom and take the following pictures of myself (as you do).  So here's the obligatory shirtless shot, a face shot with no eyes and the same face shot with eyes but no face.  I think this might be the first time I've shown my eyes on here.


That’s all I‘ve got.

Monday, 24 December 2007

Monday 24/12/07

So on Friday Matty and Nicole and I go to the Royal Albert Hall to watch some Christmas carols thing, which features the King’s College choir, a full blown orchestra, two sopranos and (apparently) audience participation in some of the carols. For this event I am wearing a white polo shirt from Ralph Lauren, a pink Lyle & Scott jumper, H&M jeans, a belt from Louis Vuitton, no socks, Gucci loafers. And here’s a picture of the audience, as you can see it’s pretty fucking busy.



At the Christmas carols evening the following things happen: The orchestra plays, two sopranos walk in – one thin, one fat, I expect the fat one to be better; she is louder anyway – 4 choirs sing, one of old men, one of old women, one of Cambridge University students, one of 10-year-old kids, I find somebody I fancy in the last one, two people pass out and the medics come in, I enjoy the performance but I’m not always there, I drift away, check in and out, when the audience participation part comes I stay quiet, we go home.

At home I’m thinking of making a video lip synching to All I Want Fro Christmas Is You to post on here, I can’t be bothered, I turn the TV on and watch CSI. I find CSI as distressing as ever, there’s a scene where two of the investigators find themselves in some remote location outside what seems like a deserted building that might have dead bodies or even the killer in it, one of them says “we have two choices, go back or go forward”, I think go back, always go back; they go forward, I go to bed.

On Saturday, I decide to check out the gym guy that Scott says is absolutely perfect and is on his list of people we’re allowed to sleep with, so I go to the gym where he works to assess for myself (I do have 4 spaces on my list to fill in anyway). By the way if you have no idea what I’m talking about see
here)

So I go there and I see a guy who fits the description in terms of facial features but I’m not sure it’s him because this guy is dressed and on his way out so I can’t see this amazing body we’ve heard so much about. In any case, the guy I see is wearing green tracksuit bottoms and most definitely gay, so if it is the guy Scott was talking about Scott is an idiot for thinking he was straight.

On Saturday evening I meet Donnell and we go out in Soho for a couple of hours. We go to a bar, Donnell has a glass of wine, I ___, then we go to a new bar where Heidi Licious works, Donnell has a glass of wine, I ___ with Heidi Licious, then we go home.

On Sunday Scott and I meet up and go to the gym where Scott’s guy works, in the hope that I will finally see him. I will refer to Scott’s guy as Aussie Personal Trainer (Aussie PT) from now on. So we go there and we’re luckier this time because Aussie PT is there and he’s still working out, so we can co-exist for a while. It turns out that it was the guy I had seen the day before, he’s still wearing his green tracksuit bottoms and he’s wearing a vest. And this is what I can tell you about Aussie PT:

- He has a good face and the nose I would like to have, and I actually will have after some plastic surgery


- He is not blonde as Scott had initially told me, he has light brown hair and Scott’s excuse for the misinformation is that Aussie PT was wearing a hat when he saw him last and he has a “blonde look” whatever that is

- He, in fact, has the best body I have ever seen in real life hands down. He has the perfect definition, tone and size, it is achingly perfect and it breaks my heart

- He is a very different kind of sexy to the Hairy Guy form my gym who I want to sleep with. Hairy Guy is just sexy in a raw masculine way. Aussie PT is absolutely flawless, like somebody typed in the specifications of the perfect human being and then had him produced. You have to trust me on this, I mean come on, I’m usually blasé about people but on this instance it’s pointless

- He does look in our direction a few times but that’s probably because we’re staring at him

- He is doing a very intense work out, for example he is sitting down shoulder press with 40kg dumbbells. To get some perspective the highest I can do is 22.5kg. Don’t let this put you off, he is NOT hugely muscly in an off-putting way. He is perfect

Looking at Aussie PT, I get in two emotional states: a) envy and b) disappointment. So yes, of course I’m jealous, but this is actually overridden by a spirit crushing realization that I can’t look like that, I never will. Some people’s response might be that they want to work out harder to achieve that, but instead I feel like stopping working out altogether, because what’s the point.

I can’t think of him sexually, I can’t even begin to imagine that I fancy him, because it’s just too unattainable. Not to mention that I wouldn’t feel comfortable going out with him because I would be the blatantly ugly one and I don’t think I can handle that. I’m not saying I’m better looking than Scott but at least we’re on equal levels.

Scott says that he wouldn’t mind going out with Aussie PT, at which point I ask him if he can even imagine how many issues Aussie PT must have and how difficult he must be, because obviously the better looking you are the more troubled you are and Scott has enough problems dealing with me even though I’m nowhere near Aussie PT levels of perfection. But that's Scott for you, he just doesn't think things through.

So I consider what my options regarding Aussie PT are for a while and these options are:

- hire him as a personal trainer so that I get to spend one hour per week in his company
- slip him GHB and date rape him
- try to be his friend so that he becomes my workout partner
- stalk him silently from a distance for the next few months

I choose the fourth one.

After the gym Scott and I go to Donnell’s house because Donnell is cooking Christmas dinner. Brendan is also there and we: talk about Aussie PT, talk about plastic surgery that I need to get, eat Christmas dinner, watch the Simpsons, play Are You Smarter Than A 10 Year Old – the board game, go home. And here’s a picture of Brendan and Scott devouring what’s left of the chicken.



And that’s all for now.

Saturday, 22 December 2007

Saturday 22/12/07

And it’s the end of the year and because of that a couple of people suggested that maybe I should write a review, mention the good and the bad things that happened in the last 12 months, reminisce, that sort of thing.  So that sounded good to start with, but then I remembered that I have no past I have no future, I’m stuck here on this day in December 2008, I don’t keep any memories and I don’t have any hopes and I don’t want to. 

So let’s talk about people’s abs and digital enhancing.  Here are some pictures that have been shoved down our throats throughout the last few months (hey, maybe this IS a 2008 review after all).  The two main ones I’m talking about are a promotional picture for the film 300 featuring Gerard Butler and a promotional picture for Armani underwear featuring David Beckham. 

Gerard Butler/300:  In this picture we see Gerard screaming something to us in full-on fury mode surrounded by splattered blood everywhere and closely followed by a big army.  I don’t know what he’s shouting, but I’m scared.  The focal point of the image is not Gerard’s face, or the blood or the big army, but it’s the seminal six-pack engraved onto Gerard’s stomach.  In fact, I think the whole promotional campaign for this film was based on that six-pack.

 

Next, let’s look at  a picture of Gerard on his little boat, without the assistance of the digital transformation and bucketful of specialist make-up.  My God where has it all gone.  I guess it was just never there.

 

David Beckham/Armani: Let’s look at this the other way round.  To start us off, here is a number of shirtless pictures of David Beckham.  I can’t begin to describe how much I don’t get the attraction of David, and how people consider his to be an example of the perfect body. All I can see is: very thin arms compared to the rest of his body, an undefined belly that’s sticking out and a chest that is lacking muscle so much, that it’s actually caving in.  

Seriously, look at his chest, I don’t just mean that he doesn’t have developed pectorals; he actually lacks this muscle group completely.  He has just a rib cage, skin and nipples.  Has he had his chest muscles removed?  Does this help with the free kicks or something?  I don’t know. 

Stomach sticking out further than chest – check: 

 

Wrists equal circumference to biceps – check:

 

Pecs actually caving in rather than sticking out – check:

 

And so miraculously, here is the Armani advert that appeared recently. 

 

Obscene six-pack has appeared out of nowhere and he has developed a cleavage and chest definition.  I guess they couldn’t expand the scrawny arms to a normal size without everyone rebelling and bringing the whole media system down (we’re not THAT stupid), so they covered them with a crisp white crop top. 

So yeah, good on Gerard and David, but I don’t have the whole Warner Bros or Armani marketing departments retouching my pictures and myself actually on a 24-hour basis, so here’s what I’ve had for dinner every night this year (more or less): 

Friday, 21 December 2007

Friday 21/12/07

On the Friday before Christmas, admittedly, it’s not the busiest day at work so I go on Wikipedia and read the biography of Albert Camus followed by the biography of Melissa Joan Hart, followed by Kelsey Grammer and Franz Kafka and then I get an email from Mean asking me whether I’m doing anything for my birthday which is coming up and this is a very good question, because I haven’t thought about it yet. 

And ideas that cross my mind for my upcoming birthday include: 

a)       To invite lots and lots of people I know either to my house or to a bar, and these lots and lots of people will include my close friends, older friends and acquaintances, friends from work, the gays that I see out and about.  

The problem with plan (a) is that:  I can’t be bothered, plus I haven’t been going to anything anyone invited me to over the last year and I seem to have an issue with answering the phone when people call, so I don’t think anyone would turn up.

b)       To name a time and place on the blog and invite everyone who reads this there, for some amazing blogger / reader interaction.  I realize there are readers from all over the world but this would be set in London, because err…that’s where I am and also that’s where a lot of the readers are too. 

The problem with plan (b) is that:  I don’t exactly have a suspicion, more a certainty I would say, that somebody would take this opportunity to come and shoot me.  Or attack me at least. 

c)       To invite some close friends only to my house, in an intimate yet sociable setting. 

And this is the plan that I’m going with in the end, so on Friday at 1153, I send around the following email: 

“As we all know, next year is a special year because it’s my birthday. 

I will be celebrating my birthday on Saturday the 5th of January, because this is quite near the 6th of January when my actual birthday is, but that is a Sunday and Sunday us a day of mourning not celebration. 

So if you want to be part of this blog post: 

So on Saturday a few people come round to my house for my birthday and nobody brings any good presents and people drink and chat and hang, but I wish they would just go now – I have episodes of Frasier to watch – and I’m wearingzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz 

…please make your way to mine at some point during that evening. 

As you can see there aren’t that many guests (well maybe 4-5 more whose emails I don’t have here) so your attendance is of vital importance. 

There’s only one rule – you have to bring somebody sexy with you.  Somebody who I haven’t personally invited (so Nicole can’t bring Matty and pretend that’s her Sexy Other), and somebody who I will consider sexy – not you.  Try to get into my head”. 

Then Scott emails back and he says that he can’t make Saturday and can I do it on Sunday instead, which causes all sorts of problems and anyway the outcome is I haven’t decided when this is going to happen yet, but it’s one of those two days. 

Anyway, the main thing to focus on is the theme of the party, which is Bring-A-Sexy.  This is a thinly-veiled attempt to have somebody go to my gym, kidnap the Hairy Guy, tie him up and gag him and bring him to my party (on his knees), and I like to think that this will actually happen.  Then everyone can piss off and I will spend my birthday with my new slave, where I will: 

-          Make him wear a t-shirt and then go in the next room and change and come back wearing a vest

-          Look at him but ask him to ignore me and never look back, thus recreating the gym dynamic

-          Ask him to clean the patio at the front because it needs doing

-          Ask for advice on how to be hairy

-          Punch him a bit

-          Cuddle him and watch Frasier.  Or CSI.  Wait, yes definitely CSI because it’s too scary to watch on my own usually

But apart from the Hairy Guy any other Sexy +1’s are also welcome.

PS. Thanks for more than 200,000 hits on the blog now.  How nice of you.

Thursday, 20 December 2007

Thursday 20/12/07

On Wednesday I finally finish reading The Castle by Franz Kafka and this seminal event occurs on the tube, traveling back home on the Central Line after the gym.  Because The Castle is an incomplete novel which even finishes mid-sentence, I feel quite unfulfilled, I need to read something, I can’t stand there and look at other passengers, the music on my iPod is just not enough, so I pick up a free newspaper from the floor and find out that Jamie Lynn Spears is pregnant at 16 and that dozens of morons still write in to complain about road tax, Posh Spice and each other’s quirks.
 
I actually did enjoy The Caste after all.  Granted, it’s difficult to get into because the writing is so dense and each sentence lasts 16 pages, but once I got used to the style I did like it.  What I really don’t like though and never will, is The Old Man and The Sea and One Hundred Years of Solitude.
 
Maybe it’s not the books’ fault though, maybe it’s my fault.  Why did I ever think that I would enjoy the story of a demented old fisherman chasing a giant bloody fish over 100 pages (when I hate old people AND the working classes – even though I kinda like fish) or the story of some fucked up Hispanic family where everyone is brave or wise or heroic (when I can’t stand cultures further south than Austria AND I fucking hate the following concepts: honour, nobility and virtue).
 
Coming to think of it, these books have something in common.  We are supposed to admire the main characters, because they demonstrate certain virtues.  They are flawed of course (anything else would drive the readers against them) but they are noble and decent; we’re meant to look up to them.  In contrast, in all the books that I love, the main characters are the complete opposite.  They are anti-heroes (Patrick Bateman in American Psycho), messed up and weak (Clay in Less Than Zero, Jamie in Bright Lights Big City, even K in The Castle), shallow and vacant (Victor in Glamorama, everyone in Nick McDonell's Twelve).  I’ll take a good relic, a fucked up villain, a tortured victim any day over the bleeding Old Man and His Sea.  He’s old and he’s not entirely with it you know, but his is a story of immense human strength.  Well fuck off.
 
So yeah anyway, I am not wasting my time with those two anymore, in fact if I had an open fire at home I would burn them; particularly that Ernest Hemingway one, I seriously want to destroy that one.  God I thought I hated Douglas Coupland enough but this is a new high.
 
Anyway, I’m going back to Athens for Christmas soon.  And I need a made up girlfriend.  Here are two pictures of me posing with two girls from work at the Christmas party last Friday.  American Girl and Pam.  Who do we think suits me best? (cause it’s all about me)  Please help me choose an imaginary girlfriend.

Broad A:



Broad B:

 

Oh yeah and finally at lunchtime on Thursday I go to the newsagent to take a look at the new issue of AXM, because I want to see if anyone sent anything to the letters' page about my article last month.  Sadly this month they have had the ingenious idea to wrap it in a plastic bag, so I can't read it there in the shop.  And I'm seriously not buying that, am I?  So the plan is to either a) go to a bigger shop where they're not paying attention and rip the bag open and check it out then, or b) wait for a reader who's bought it to have a look and let me know if there are any references.  Whatever happens first.