On Wednesday night I go to bed and I can’t fall asleep but I don’t want to take prescription sleeping pills for the sixth night in a row, so I just lie there and try to run through Frasier scripts in my head. Then at 0100 I turn the light back on and start reading The Slaves of New York, which I’ve nearly finished now and isn’t as bad as I initially thought. So I read for half an hour and then try to sleep again but then I turn the light back on and read the leaflet that comes with the sleeping pills and it says that they’re not addictive but I don’t trust it and I still don’t take one and I try to sleep again and I’m not sure what time this happens eventually but it does.
On Thursday I run the idea about the blog wikipedia entry by Mean (I run several ideas by people before I post them on here, because I’m not a very good judge of what’s too much, too immoral or what could get me into trouble) and Mean says it’s fine and that’s when I go ahead and type yesterday’s entry.
But we actually like this idea a lot and practice writing wikipedia entries for each other’s lives (I write one for Mean and one for Matty, Mean writes one for me) and this is the one that Mean wrote for me:
“London Preppy was born to a man and a woman on 6th January 1980. He never knew his parents as they lived in a different wing of his house. His best friends growing up were Mehmet, a Turkish servant-boy, and Angelos, a friend visible to London Preppy and London Preppy only. Mehmet and Angelos took turns humouring London Preppy and his already nonsensical whims. London Preppy spent the early part of his adolescence performing stereotypical Greek activities such as growing facial hair by age 10, buggery and being the mooching scumbuckets of Europe.
London Preppy’s life was transformed in his mid-teens with the discovery of ‘Brit-Pop’, which turned a previously happy-go-lucky individual (imagine Rod/Todd Flanders) into a sullen, manic-depressive (imagine Kevin the Teenager). It was here that his Anglophilia began.
On his 18th birthday, London Preppy met his parents for the first time and informed them of his plans to move to England. There, he transformed from a socially awkward, skinny sourfaced, asexual brat into a socially awkward, well-built, sourfaced homo. Other changes included metamorphosis of his name. On the day of his death (caused by a misunderstanding between him and squeeze ‘Jack’ over the correct safeword, resulting in London Preppy’s suffocation inside a gimp mask), London Preppy (as I knew him) was officially known as Tyler Piper Perabo North South East West ___. London Preppy was never professionally fulfilled : he pursued a fruitless career in ___ ___ when his real life aim was to work in Harvey Nichols on the Gucci concession.
London Preppy 6th January 1980 – 6th June 2008”
On Friday I’m wearing Diesel jeans and Gucci trainers and a Duffer belt with a white DKNY shirt and purple jumper from Zara and at lunchtime I go to Selfridges to find a new gym bag but I don’t see anything I like and then go back in the office and read wikipedia articles on Bodybuilding, the artist Banksy, the BBC show QI, Personal Training, Stephen Fry, then I go to the gym.
This week I have also received a couple of emails from a reader, which I thought I’d mention on here. So the email conversation goes:
A reader: “Gday London, A very happy new year to you mate! I was wondering if you could tell me the name of this aussie pt fella. I have a mate livin im london at the moment. It has got me very intrigued! Cheers mate- ___”
Me: “Hi __, Happy New Year to you too! Well, let’s see. What is your friend’s name (or his initials at least) and I’ll tell you whether it’s him”
A reader: “Hehe well his name is ___ and he’s a brazilian aussie, been in london nearly 12 months and he trains at gym but he’s not really in the professional training business as such. Guess i’m just curious now as to seeing how stunning this dude of yours is – promise nothin will come of it”
Me: “Unfortunately (or fortunately) it’s not the same person. I’m immune to the charms of Brazilians anyway”
A reader: “Come on London! For sparing your identity on this blog, surely you can tell me aussie pt’s in return”
Me (being blackmailed now I think): “Sparing my identity on which blog? Well even if I gave you a name for the PT, what use would it be? Where will you look him up?!”
So yes, indeed what does it matter what the person is called? Who is actually going to benefit if I start publishing some poor guy’s name on my stupid little blog and embarrass him just because I happened to find him attractive? Right now this is a story that’s funny to ready and nobody’s exposed.
For the 54th time then, can people please just read this blog as completely made up fiction? Interactive yes (because I really like and appreciate the comments), but definitely fiction. Let’s not make connections to real life, there’s no point.
As for my identity, again what does it matter what my name is? What does it matter whether I'm called Tom or Dan or Claire or Grasshopper? And I may be thick but I do realise my name is not difficult to find, I'm sure it's here on the site somewhere if you start clicking around and for fuck's sake I've been on the cover of a national magazine and my name has been there in big bold writing right next to me. I just don't want to type it here on my everyday posts and that's the end of it.
It's my blog, I do what I likes.
Sorry if I sound pissed off, I don't get the fascination though.