Sunday, 30 March 2008

Sunday 30/03/08

So this weekend Andrews is visiting with his boyfriend and they’re staying with me.  I don’t mind having people stay with me, as long as they don’t want to interact much and put me out of my schedule.  Of course Andrews knows this – we’ve lived together for 5+ years – so nobody’s disappointed. 

Andrews rings me at work on Friday and he tells me that they’re arriving at 1750, so I say that’s very nice but I’m going to the gym after work (to do chest and abs) and I’ll be at home around 1930, so they should find a way to entertain themselves in the meantime.  Then they find a way to entertain themselves and then we meet. 

Later in the evening I leave them at home and I go over to Scott’s to spend the night.  Scott tells us that he’s quite sick so I bring with me: Moroccan Chickpea New Covent Garden Food Co soup, Lemsip Cold & Flu Max Relief sachets (lemon flavour), two plums, one tin of prunes.  On the way to Scott’s I listen to Machine Gun by Portishead, which is followed by Black Cat by Ladytron, which is followed by After The Rain by Grand Avenue, which is fo 

I let myself in to Scott’s and I find him semi-conscious on the bed, I probe him a bit and he drags himself to the sofa, we try to interact but it’s not happening, I realize he’s way too sick so I leave what I’ve brought him (apart from the Lemsip which I forget in my bag) and I go back home. 

Saturday is the day when I was planning to make my first chocolate dessert from my new recipe book, but Scott is still sick and it’s not fun doing it on my own.  And I don’t think Andrew and Boyfriend share my enthusiasm for developing a talent in baking goods.  So instead, I go to the gym where I do arms and abs and I come cross a pair of Adidas Y3 trainers by Yohji Yamamoto in my size, which I take. 

In the afternoon I go back home and while Andrew and Boyfriend are watching TV in the living room, I take my laptop in my bedroom, spend sufficient time on bigmuscle.com and fall asleep.  

Later, having been inspired by all the profile pictures on bigmuscle.com where everyone seems to just flex their muscles and try to look hard, I take the following picture in the bathroom.  I’m not sure I look as fuck-off as most of the people on bigmuscle.com with their beards and their steroids and their brawn, but it’s all I got at this point.


On Saturday evening Andrew and Boyfriend go for dinner and I meet Mean and we go for dinner – because we want to go to different places.  Then we all meet up and go for coffee.  Scott also turns up, but he’s still sick and perhaps he shouldn’t have. 

During this coffee drinking event, I buy and triple chocolate muffin which I eat and spit in a napkin.  Yes, I do eat some carbs now, but I’m not completely self-destructive just yet.  Here is a picture of the regurgitated triple chocolate muffin (with napkin).  

I have kept and taken this home and after Mean’s suggestion I am willing to gift it to one lucky reader.  If you’re interested, please let me know and I’ll post it to you, but you might have to cover the postage costs.

Tuesday, 25 March 2008

Tuesday 25/03/08

First here are a couple of reminders: 

a)       Please send pictures of your tattoos to enter the Best Reader Tattoo competition and the potential opportunity to get a right piss-take by me.  I don’t know why you’d want that, but I’m sure you would.  Oh yeah and if you send a picture, include a London Preppy reference in it, as proof that it is actually you.  I don’t particularly want to see tattoos you’ve googled. 

b)       Please join the London Preppy fanpage on facebook – if you are on facebook.  Again, I don’t know why you’d want that (apart from to serve my own selfish purposes for further promotion of this blog), but maybe you would. 

Now then, yesterday I wrote the clubbing post and one of the quotes I included implied there was an incident of confrontation / swearing / fighting.  It really wasn’t as bad as that, but here’s the full story anyway. 

It’s about 0530 and I want to go home and I’ve just joined the queue for the cloakroom, a queue that I’ll be part of for the next hour.  So I’m on my own, because everyone else has stayed in the club, and prepared for a long wait.  

That’s when somebody comes up behind me and pulls my shorts down.  Not my underwear, just my shorts.  Properly down though, to just above my knees.  So at this very moment (I haven’t turned around to look who it is yet), I’m thinking: 

a)       If it’s Scott or Donnell or Brendan, fair enough, I will laugh it off

b)       If it’s somebody I know but not those guys, perhaps a clubbing “friend” that I know and chat to, I’ll tell them off but joke about it

c)       If it’s somebody I don’t know at all, they’re dead 

I pull my shorts up not having lost my dignity because I didn’t have any before anyway, turn around and realize it’s c) somebody I don’t know at all.  And that somebody is some guy in his 20s I guess, non-muscly, kinda Latin looking, generally invisible to me.  He’s stood there with some girl and I think he’s smiling, but I can’t be sure, I’m too angry.   

Instantly I start shouting at him at the top of my voice: Why the fuck did you do that.  I must point out that I am very good at pronouncing the word fuck when I’m angry, I literally spit it out like a punch and I get great pleasure from it.  Conversely, I never ever swear in Greek, because it feels too rude.  The guy looks a little unsettled, even though not as unsettled as I’d like, and he starts delivering a long rant in an incomprehensible, unattractive language.  Is it Spanish?  Is it Portuguese?  Is it Brazilian?  Is Brazilian even a language?  Please do not answer any of these questions, I don’t really want to know. 

Because he doesn’t even offer an apology, or even a basic response in a non-ridiculous language (i.e. English, perhaps German, I’d even accept a Scandinavian language to be honest), I get more pissed off and I continue screaming at him: Fuck off.  Fuck right off.  Fuck.  Right.  Off.  As he’s stood there I also push him on the chest with both hands (symmetrically) hard enough to make him realize he needs to fuck. right. off. (as per my verbal instructions), but not so hard that I’m threatening his safety or anything. 

Then he’s gone and I turn around to continue my queuing. 

During all that, one person I know is actually around – an American gym friend I will call Alexei from now on – and even though he didn’t catch the shorts pulling incident, he turned up just in time for the confrontation.  So I have to ask him how I looked, whether I came across scary and/or mental, whether this aggro look is a good one for me and I should do it more often…that sort of thing. 

EDIT: See comments for Alexei's eye-witness report.

Finally, here’s a picture or two of the red shorts, as requested by some readers. 





Yes, they looked even more ridiculous in real life.

Saturday, 22 March 2008

Saturday 22/03/08

So in the middle of this Easter Holiday weekend, and before another spectacular clubbing post (coming up), here's a couple of things:

1) On Saturday afternoon I'm on my way to Tesco to do my weekly shopping, when I realise that I don't make a contribution to anyone around me, I don't really have any talents, I'm a big void of skills and competences and that maybe I should consider developing one.  And the skill that I want to develop is to be the best chocolate dessert maker in the world.  Or somebody who can make a half-decent attempt at making a chocolate brownie anyway.

So I go in  bookshop on the way to Tesco and I ring up Andrews and I tell him my plan (I can always benefit from some encouragement), and whilst talking to him I flick through about 5-6 books of chocolate recipes in the Cooking section, but it all gets too confusing and I get too hungry, so I leave.  But that's OK, I wasn't planning to make anything this weekend anyway, I don't really have the time.

So here is where you come in.  I've now gone on Amazon and added about 10 books of chocolate recipes to my Wishlist (found on the right), and if anyone is kind enough to want to send me one, I promise to spend the following weekend making different desserts, until I've found that one I'm best at, and it can be my signature dessert.  

And if you invite me over to yours, I'll also make it and bring it.  Well, maybe I'll just leave it outside your door, ring the bell and run, because I don't want you to kill me or anything.

2) A couple of people recently suggested that maybe I should have a reader tattoo competition.  This didn't seem like a great idea at first (we all know what happened with the Best Looking Reader competition and how every second entry was a fake), but I've decided to do it.

And in order to prove that the tattoo you've sent in is yours, you'll have to take a picture and include a London Preppy sign or something in it.  I'm warning you though, you have to know what you've let yourself in for: I will give my opinion on all the tattoos that I receive, and you have to be prepared to hear me rant about them too.  

But it' OK, it will be in the trademark London Preppy rant style, surely everyone wants to be on the receiving end of that?

So that's all for now, get sending tattoo pictures (with London Preppy reference) to london.preppy@gmail.com

Friday, 21 March 2008

Friday 21/03/08

On Thursday evening I have four days of not going to work ahead of me.  And on Thursday evening I’m finding this 19% comforting and 81% upsetting, because I can already recreate the feeling of despair, hollowness and bone-crushing sadness really that will come on Monday from 2pm onwards. 

So I go to the gym and then I go home and then Scott comes to mine and we head out.  For this outing I have chosen to wear a pair of G-Star jeans, white Lonsdale trainers, a grey/red stripey G-star polo shirt and a look that says I have emptied my mind of all thoughts, but I know there’s this underlying sorrow that will never go away. 

And we go to this bar in Soho where Scott’s friends from Matinee are working and we hang out a bit with them even though they’re all massively muscly and they make me feel anorexic and we also __ and then we go upstairs where Brendan is with some of his friends and we hang out a bit with them too. 

Then I take the tube and go home and watch Frasier and go to bed.

On Friday morning I want to go and get some shorts, because I may or may not be going clubbing again very soon (= I may) and there’s nothing that I have and I want to wear.  So I go to Bershka and Banana Republic and finally Armani Exchange, where I get some grey knee length shorts for £65 and then I go to the gym. 

Then I go to the gym, and this is a new gym that I don’t usually go to (I’ve been there 3-4 times) and they have this very annoying foreign woman working in reception who always asks me if I want to buy one of the crappy sports drinks that they sell there on the way in.  I don’t know how she came up with this ingenious idea, but it’s really needy and it makes me cringe. 

So the conversation this time goes like this: 

She says, after scanning my card (in heavy Eastern European accent): You want drink for your workout? 

I says (in heavy Southern European accent with a very slight British enunciation though which instantly gives me the upper hand): No thanks, I’m alright. 

She says: But you need hydration for your workout 

I says: It’s fine, water hydrates me too 

She shouts and laughs (cackles, really): No it doesn't! 

I says: Did you just say that water doesn’t hydrate? 

She says: No, I does.  Lucozade better though.  Has sodium 

I says: Fine, I’ll eat some salt 

She says (undeterred): You wanna buy bottle of water then? 

I says: No, I’ll have the free water instead thanks 

At that point I’m thinking of adding, In fact I was planning to buy a protein bar, but you’re way too pushy and I’ve changed my mind, but I don’t say that, because a) it’s too petty even for me and b) I feel sorry for her, she’s stupid, she’s foreign, what else do I want?  I can’t be too much of a twat. 

Then I work out.

Thursday, 20 March 2008

Thursday 20/03/08

So on Thursday I have to go to work again, like the past four years haven’t been enough, and this Thursday is a special one – being the last day of the week because it’s “Easter”.  Now this actually confuses and infuriates me: am I supposed to dress like it’s casual Friday, or am I supposed to dress like a normal Thursday?  I wish somebody would write a book about these things, so we all know what to do. 

And what I decide is something halfway between the two.  I’m not wearing suit trousers and a shirt, but I’m not turning up in jeans either.  What I’m wearing in the end is: soft cotton white shirt with blue stripes from the Gap, pale blue thin Ralph Lauren Polo Golf jumper, pair of Ralph Lauren chinos, dark brown leather belt from the Gap, dark brown leather boots from Gucci, navy Ralph Lauren bag with brown leather handles.  

In the office I take off the jumper and roll the shirt sleeves up and I’m ready for the day. 

Then I meet Mean for lunch and he asks me if I came straight from the Hamptons.

Then I go back in the office and some guy asks me if I’m off to the Hamptons later. 

Then I investigate the good looking guy from the Apprentice a bit more (see yesterday’s post) and I can’t say that this has reached a level of obsession yet, but it’s pretty close.  And what we know about this guy so far is: 

His name is Lee McQueen. 

(= a decent Anglo-Saxon name) 

He is a 30 year old … 

(= a good age, he’s lived his life, he’s had his fun, he’s now ready to settle down with me) 

…Recruitment Sales Manager… 

(= unfortunately he’s a twat) 

…from Princes Risborough. 

(I have no idea what this means, but I’m negatively predisposed) 

Son of a milkman… 

(I’ll pretend I didn’t just read that) 

…Lee realised at an early age the importance of working hard… 

(= we have nothing in common) 

…and getting your foot on the property ladder. Lee bought his first house aged 18 and then went on to buy one for his mother in return for all the support she has given him. 

(Oh fuck off) 

Lee describes himself as a cat – sometimes purring with affection and other times just biting. 

(A master of allegory) 

He has over eight years experience in the recruitment industry gained predominately in IT. To cheer up his colleagues he likes to do a "reverse pterodactyl" which involves him standing on a chair and screeching. 

(I’m starting to change my mind here) 

He says: "There is no airy-fairy stuff with me, I tell it how I see it." 

(= Homophobic) 

I still love him.

Wednesday, 19 March 2008

Wednesday 19/03/08

So on Tuesday I’m back in the gym where I do shoulders and abs and I would like to stay and do some back too perhaps, but I have a toilet to block.  So I pick up as much blue paper towel as I can and stuff it in my pockets (blue paper towel of “please do not put blue paper towel in the toilet as it may result in blockage” fame) and I head for the cubicle.  

In the cubicle, I throw the blue paper towel down the toilet, flush the toilet, flush the toilet again, take a piss for good measure, flush the toilet a third time.  At this point the blue paper towel is stuck there and the water is overflowing.  I walk out and the guy who’s queuing outside walks in, takes a look and walks out again. 

Under the illusion that my job there is done, I head to the showers, where I wash my hair, shower and empty two full containers of shampoo and shower gel on the floor.  I walk back to the toilet to inspect the mess, only to realize that I have to try a lot harder than that.  A cleaner guy is there, he has simply pulled out the blue paper towel that was causing a minor blockage and the toilet is working perfectly fine.  

Undeterred by this initial failure, but realizing this just won’t do, I make two decisions: a) to get hold of some cement, b) to ask blog readers with plumbing experience for the best toilet-blocking techniques. 

Well actually, as it’s becoming apparent that the sabotage so far has only affected the poor cleaner who’s had to stick his hand down the toilet and replace the shower gel a lot more often that he imagined when he left his little village in Venezuela to come to London and chase his dream (of scrubbing gym floors), I now decide to take the advice of a blog reader from last week and do away with a gym towel each day.  I go to that particular gym 4 times a week, and yes fine, 208 towels per year will not make a huge dip in their budget, but it’s a start. 

And because I have no intention of taking these cum/sweat/blood soaked towels at home and use them there, I’ll just stuff one in my bag every day, take it out, and put it in the bin right outside the gym. 

On Wednesday morning on the way to work I accidentally pick up a copy of Metro and as I go through it turning each page and folding it neatly before moving to the next one without reading it (it’s very satisfying neatly folding a newspaper along the crease – well, I get my kicks out of it anyway), I come across the following picture. 


From what I can gather (and I’m not that perceptive), this shows us the contestants for the new series of the TV show The Apprentice.  I am not here to discuss the TV show The Apprentice, which I have absolutely no fucking interest in, but I’m here to discuss the picture.  Well OK, in brief the show is a competition amongst 16 monkeys to get a £100,000/year job.  And this has to do with being good in business, which I personally find a skill as enviable as being good at skinning dead children. 

Anyway, these people in the picture have decided that this is what they want to do with their lives, so who am I to stop them?  What I want to do is make comments on the way they look and how they’re positioned. 

(By the way I know this picture is quite small, I couldn’t find another.  If you can, please send). 

OK, so look at the guy number 1 (the guy sitting down in the middle, wearing the pink tie) .  He’s in the centre of the picture (well, if you ignore the old geezer who runs the show), he has the best lights on him, he’s the best looking.  How do you think he landed there, in that prominent spot?  Is it because he’s the smartest, because he’s the most competent, because he’s the richest?  No, it’s because of his looks.  

Who cares who wins this fucking show, this guy has already won.  So what is the fat guy (to the right of the woman in red) lurking behind in the shadows ends up landing the job.  Our guy doesn’t give a fuck: he gets served first at the bar, he gets all the girls, he gets the best restaurant table. 

Now please also look at the other two guys on the front row (sitting down, either end), yes, they’re the only other good looking people in the game.  Not as good looking as the middle gay - who the producers would have been insane to position anywhere else - but better looking than everyone else they're hiding in the back.  And here are close ups of the guys discussed, and some of the other losers. 

Painfully good looking middle guy:



What the fuck:


Fat guy from back row with distorted face:


Speechless:


Good looking guy from front row no.2 (please ignore hair, he'll grow out of the phase and will maintain that face)


Good looking guy from front row no.3 (same situation with hair)


And I guess my point is that I don’t care what anyone says: appearance is fate. 

(Of course I stole that from somewhere – can’t remember where – but I like it a lot.  Anyway, I’ll type it again cause I want to close with that, to leave a lasting impression). 

Appearance is fate.

Tuesday, 18 March 2008

Tuesday 18/03/08

So on Monday, I have the day off work and I wake up at Scott’s house and secretly hoping that he doesn’t get up, I sneak out of the bedroom and into the living room so I can watch my own choice of TV and not the crappy TV that Scott makes us watch.  

And my own choice of TV includes such amazing programmes as The Simpsons, Family Guy, American Dad, America’s Next Top Model, Frasier, Girls of the Playboy Mansion (aka The Girls Next Door if you’re in America) Malcolm in the Middle, generally anything ridiculous and/or mindless.  And Scott’s choice of TV includes such atrocious programmes as How London Was Built, What the Tudors Did for Us, anything on the Discovery Channel, anything on the History Channel, anything factual and dull. 

Then unfortunately Scott gets up so I get dressed and go home, but not before stopping at M&S to pick up another chocolate cheesecake, which I finish eating in front of my TV despite the fact that it’s making me sick, very sick, but very happy.  

Later in the evening, I’m unfortunate enough that the movie adaptation of Less Than Zero comes on one of the movie channels on my Greek satellite TV. 

I’ve started watching this movie several times before and I’ve never made it past the first 10 minutes, I just find it too painful.  This is not what the book looks like in my head, and what goes on in my head is the most important thing there is.  Tonight, however, I’m feeling particularly self-destructive and I keep watching. 

The main character, Clay (the literary character I most associate with) is played by this guy called Andrew McCarthey, who’s glass-eyed and vacant, no because he’s dead inside (like the best of us), but because nothing has actually gone wrong in his life. 

Within the first five minutes “Clay” has arrived in California and got into a taxi to get home, and the twat of an actor who plays him is looking around wide-eyed, expectant and, dare I say it, grinning.  There, I’ve said it, he’s grinning.  

The fact that he’s wide-eyed though annoys me the most.  I, personally, have never opened my eyes fully for anything, and neither has Clay in the book (as I imagine him).  In fact, if I were ever tempted to open up my eyes wide, I would take some Valium and lie down. 

Then, other characters appear (Blair, Julian) and they are played by actors so unfitting, I can’t bear to watch anymore.  There, I’ve made it to 18 minutes and I feel kinda dirty. 

I’m quite convinced that Bret Easton Ellis must be appalled by the movie adaptations of his books.  Mind you, if anyone wants to turn my story into a movie, they can give me the cash and then they can go on and cast whoever they want to play me, Scott, Donnell, et al: Danny De Vito, the old lady from Titanic, Whoopi Goldberg, I just won’t give a fuck.

Monday, 17 March 2008

Monday 17/03/08

So on Saturday night I take half a sleeping pill at 2230 and go to bed and at 2330 I have another half and at 0100 I take a third half and then my alarm goes off at 0630.  And I go clubbing.

And because I can't write clubbing stories well and anyway there is no way I can do justice to the madness / surrealism / randomness of spending 7-8 hours in a maze of dark rooms with hundreds of half naked people you don't know but interact extensively with, I have decided to just post some pictures and intersperse them with text messages I sent and received during that time, plus some quotes of things that I said or were said to me and my friends.



Text at 0811: Which loos?

Quote: "Do you  ___? We need to wake up XXX"



Text at 1141: We're now at the loos.  Come here?

Quote: "What job do you do?" "I don't want to say" "You're a rentboy, aren't you?"



Text at 1256: Well, I came back but couldn't see you.  I'm upstairs in the bar where the front doors are.

Quote: "You should know who I am, I've been on the cover of your magazine twice"



Text at 1805: Still here, lights came up.  You?

Quote: "Why are you still wearing your top?" "It's my way of standing out"



Text at 0812: Upstairs somewhere?  If you find a bottle might also help.

Quote: "Yes, you're very hot too, but I can't do anything"



Text at 1110: I'm queuing for the main toilets.  Wanna ___

Quote: "Listen, it's been good talking to you, but I think I'm going to be sick. I'll go find my boyfriend". "Yes, be sick first and then find your boyfriend"



Text at 1138: I'm in the main room with XXX and the American guy from the gym

Quote: (Person A to random person) "Can you stop licking my face?" (person B observing all this to person A) "I think you've handled this well" (person A to person B) "Thanks, I try not to be rude, because then people say you have an attitude" (person B) "That's true.  But you have to draw the line somewhere"

Text at 1153: I'd like to but it's kinda fun here.  We're on the small stage.



Text at 1236: I'm  ___.  Come back!

Quote: "Can I fuck you?" "I've got to go and find my friends"

Text at 1300: We're at the main toilets, Donnell ___



Then I come home and I eat a pizza and a big chocolate cheesecake and some noodles and an asparagus and stilton soup and two chocolate brownies and after vomiting I have a bath and watch 3 episodes of Family Guy and 3 episodes of Malcolm in the Middle and go to bed.

Sunday, 16 March 2008

Sunday 16/03/08

"I can't talk to you right now, I'm clubbing"

Saturday, 15 March 2008

Saturday 15/03/08

On Thursday evening I don’t go to the gym but I go for dinner with Matty and Nicole and Niles and Elliott.  And we go to Brown’s in Covent Garden where I have a starter of carrot and asparagus soup, which reminds me why I don’t eat soup, followed by a hot chicken salad with garlic and chilli, roasted red peppers, crispy bacon and avocado, with a side of creamed spinach – none of which I actually enjoy, but I pick on, while everyone else is eating either bacon cheeseburgers with chips or steak, mushroom and Guinness pies and chips.  I really don’t understand how they can do that to themselves.

 

Especially as Elliott reveals at some point that when we all used to live together in a big house in west London, he would sometimes go running having wrapped cling film around his waist, to lose weight.  And when he ran out of cling film, he would wear a plastic bin bag around his torso instead, having cut holes for his arms.  Well, maybe with fewer pies and chips he wouldn’t have to do that, but I’m not here to judge – in fact I think he should keep doing it, because it’s funny.

 

In the end we pay and tip the waiter normally, because we have no complaints – no wait, actually I take this back, my story is that we do NOT tip the waiter for no reason whatsoever and we leave.  Hopefully this will piss off the wait staff who read this blog a bit more.

 

On dress down Friday at work, I decide for the first time in weeks not to wear some ridiculous preppy outfit (i.e. chinos, loafers, some combination of pink and green) and turn up as a normal person in jeans and an Abercrombie t-shirt (don’t worry, you can’t tell it’s Abercrombie) and…

 

…just before lunchtime Pam has this idea that I need to pose shirtless with her toy cow in the toilets and have my picture taken, which I have no reservations about, so once again we lock ourselves in a cubicle and:


After work I go to the gym where I do chest and then on the sunbed where I listen to Sometimes by James, followed by Music Sounds Better With You by Stardust followed by 36 Degrees by Placebo twice and as Placebo sing “I’ve never been an extrovert but I’m still breathing” for the second time, the sunbed goes out and I make my way to the shower. 

On Saturday morning I go to Borders and read a Bret Easton Ellis interview in V magazine, flick through last month’s American GQ and ask if they have Time Out Athens (they do, I don’t look at it) and then I go to the gym. 

In the gym some guy who’s doing bicep curls with a bar and looks very straight and quite sexy asks me to spot him, which is something that always makes me curious.  When somebody walks up to you in the gym and asks you to spot them, are they definitely gay, or do they actually need help?  And if they are straight why would they ask me, I look kinda gay anyway, I would have guessed they’d avoid talking to me. 

Then I get back home, where I watch TV and make plans to take a sleeping pill at 2200, set my alarm for 0400 Sunday morning and go to bed, because

Friday, 14 March 2008

Friday 14/03/08

By Tuesday morning my rusty dagger has become such a big part of me that I can't picture leaving the house without it. I don't completely depend on it, I'm much stronger than that, but there's a sense of security, strength, tranquility that comes from knowing that it's always there, just a few inches away from my hand, for those frequent moments that I need to feel its sharpness against my pale white skin, its brutal edge brushing against my fingers.

When I discuss this with ___, who completely understands my rational fears, I decide I need to get some more knives. This is not the time to be frivolous with my safety, it doesn't feel right to continue taking chances like this: unarmed, naked, unprotected.

I start researching knife shops near work online, realising this would make an ideal lunchtime destination, but it quickly becomes apparent that it’s not easy to find a dagger outlet in my part of central London. Blinded with desire and unable to concentrate on anything else, I ring up Scott and ask how he got hold of my existing knife, the knife that’s quickly become my most treasured possession.

Scott disappointingly informs me that his granddad (who was in the Navy) brought it from India in the 1960s as a present for Scott’s Mother, so it might be rare to find something similar around here. Quickly disregarding my concerns about anyone bringing a 25cm dagger as a present for a little girl (it was the 1960s after all) and unable to come up with more practical solutions, I zone out and start thinking of the moment I find this blade shop and walk in to make my purchase.

It’s a weekday lunchtime. It’s not Friday though, I can’t go on a dress-down Friday: I need to be smartly dressed, perhaps wearing a suit or something very officy anyway. If they have anything special in a back room or behind the counter I want me to look like I deserve to see it and have the means to buy it. I walk in, starting to sweat – with anticipation; not nerves – and with a steady voice I

...................................................................................................

On Wednesday at the gym, I’m in the changing room sucking my stomach in in the mirror, when Aussie Guy comes in and starts getting changed, leaving his gym card on a bench – face up so I can read his name.

Aussie Guy is a straight gym character, who I’ve been seeing most days over the last year or so, and it’s not like he’s amazingly sexy or anything (I suppose he’s alright; I mean girls would probably fancy him – we know what their standards are like), but I like him a lot. I like him because he’s nice, friendly, he always shares weights, he asks if you’re done, etc. If I were able to distinguish positivity, I might even say I get a positive vibe from him.

So anyway, I grab this opportunity and lean over the bench to untie and tie my shoelaces back up and I see his name. And his name is ___ ___. Later at home, I look him up on facebook, and as there are no results (it’s a very unusual combination of names so there is no one there), I decide to google him. And via the medium of googling him I find a news story about somebody with this name – who is also Australian according to the article – and was prosecuted for sexually attacking a girl two years ago. I take this as a good sign and a positive reinforcement of my faultless instinct about people, because let’s face it, what’s cool about somebody who’s not a rapist / homicidal maniac / drug addict / serious fuck up.

Finally, on my personal facebook update, I have now started a fanpage on there for London Preppy. Quite a few people suggested that this was a better idea than having a normal profile. So, sorry I have to ask you to do things again, but if you’re on facebook, please do a search for London Preppy and become a fan of the fanpage. I’ll be deleting the existing normal facebook profile (which has around 100 friends) soon. Sorry for the trouble and thanks.

Wednesday, 12 March 2008

Wednesday 12/03/08

On Saturday morning I find myself in a very wealthy area of North London under circumstances which I’m not going to explain here and as I walk into the tube station to go central for the gym… 

…I spot three girls.  These girls are posh.  They are in the early/mid 20s and they all have expensive, neat, blonde long hair and nice expensive but subtle clothes (of course proper rich, posh people don’t wear obvious brands – they leave that to the gays and poor people who max out their credit cards to buy a Louis Vuitton logo with some bag behind it) and their accents, oh their accents.  These are accents formed in years of boarding school and NEVER interacting with people from the working classes. 

Obviously I fall in love with these girls (one in particular actually) and stay close enough and the following things happen: 

-          They are talking about a weekend away that’s coming up and this weekend away involves boat trips, perhaps boat races, I’m not quite sure.  They refer to “the boys” (this kind of people have huge circles of mixed friends they go way back with – they went to school together, their parents know each other) and they discuss how there should be mixed groups of boys / girls on each boat, otherwise “the boys” might get “too boisterous” and “competitive”.  This is a world I want to be in 

-          On the platform, I intend to keep near them to continue listening in, but I don’t need to try too hard.  They are staying close to me as well, I think they also have a passing interest.  I put this down to the fact that I’m wearing deck shoes, stripy shirt with collar up and a navy jumper.  My appearance is deceptive, they think I might be one of them, little do they know I would give my right arm to be 

-          When the train comes, it’s absolutely packed.  We go in through the same door and stand on breathing distance from each other.  They continue to chat (posh people have no consideration for others in public places) and discuss how appalling and overcrowded public transport is.  One of them says: “I mean if you’re ever going to be this hot, you might as well be on a sunbed”.  I almost turn straight 

-          One stop later I get off, never to see them again, apart from in some hallucination perhaps, sitting in some club toilets, imagining what it’s like to be normal, straight, carefree, well-bred, happy 

On Tuesday this week, I go to the gym after work, only to find out that I’ve left my membership card on my desk in the office.  So I says can I come in anyway (for God’s sake I’m here every day, you know me).  The manager woman (that says it all really) said no, rules are rules: you can only go to your Home Club if you don’t have your card with you (the Home Club is where you initially registered and mine is about 2 tube stops away from the club I usually go to).  So I says, this has happened before and you just rang my Home Club and checked and you let me in.  She says no, I can’t do that.  Whoever did that last time was wrong.  

After about 5 minutes of this (asking her what different it makes, how it will affect her job if she lets me in, telling her she’s ruining my evening), I have to leave and get the tube to the next gym and walk there, which adds about 20 minutes to my schedule, 20 minutes that could have been spent sitting on my couch watching Frasier.   

And can you imagine if my Home Club had been miles away?  I would not have been able to work out at all.  Oh my God this is making me angry right now as I’m typing. 

On the one hand I don’t really blame that woman, because she’s a complete moron, I mean she has a lame-ass job in a gym after all, but on the other hand, her politeness could have overcome her stupidity, but no, it didn’t. 

And even though expecting somebody like that to show initiative and take the situation in their hands is a bit like expecting the monkeys in the zoo to feed themselves and lock their cage every night, I am still quite infuriated this Tuesday evening.  But it’s OK, I have plenty of time while I’m stewing in my anger to come up with a payback plan. 

And this payback plan (also known as: How Can I Fuck Up These Inflexible Unhelpful Bastards) involves continuing to go the same gym daily, but taking my revenge through the following actions: 

-      Opening the container and emptying the remaining shower gel they provide in the shower after I’m done with it (every day)

-      Throwing blue paper towel in the toilet so as to block it – at least twice

-       Never returning the weights where they belong

-       Hiding the towels – not returning them after I’m done

-       Leaving rubbish in the lockers 

So basically they could have let me train without my card for once, which would have had no negative consequence on anyone, or they could be dealing with a series of never-ending gym faux-pas, bad etiquette, increased expenditure and some really annoying plumbing problems.  They chose the latter. 

I realize that some of the suggestions above are not aimed at the gym management and could harm customers or the poor cleaners instead, so please if you have any better ideas, let me know.