Tuesday, 29 April 2008

Wednesday 30/04/08

On Monday afternoon I get back to London and I’m kinda tired and unsettled and I just want to get home so I make that sacrifice, I pay £15 and I take the Heathrow Express that takes me home in twenty minutes instead of paying £3.50 or whatever it is to take the tube and be home in an hour and twenty minutes.

At home I unpack and read a Greek magazine that I brought with me and I make my gym bag for the next day and I go to Tesco to do my shopping – all these things on autopilot – and then Scott comes round and we talk and then we go for a walk even though it's raining and then he goes.

And on Monday I also decide that I’m going to start going to bed earlier, I’m going to start going to bed at 2315 and not at 0000, because I’ve been very sleep deprived and at least if I get this 45-minute headstart I’ll have a bit more time to panic and drop all the sleeping pills I can find at arm’s length when I haven’t slept two hours after I go to bed.

On Tuesday there is email overload: emails between me and Pam, emails between me and A Girl, emails between me and Mean, emails between me and Chris my Greek friend, emails between me and Andrews, emails between me and Alex, emails between me and Enid.

After work (was I really at work? I’m not sure at this point) I go to the gym – my new gym – where I see the pale personal trainer with the chest rash and I find out his name (there’s a board on the wall) and later at home I look him up on facebook, but he does not have a profile or at least he doesn’t have a profile that can be found by stalkers like me.

Oh on Tuesday lunchtime I also meet Mean for lunch and we walk around Covent Garden and this is the last week when Mean is working in the area. From next week I’ll be walking around on my own again.

In any case, while we still have Mean there, I see this guy standing against a lamp post and he is the most ridiculously preppy guy I have ever seen, so I practically walk up to him and take this picture. I can’t help myself.

It’s not just the navy pinstripe suit, it’s not the maroon stripy tie, it’s not the nonchalant pose, it’s not the brown leather bag, it’s not the cream jumper unnecessarily tied around his neck (oh my God that cream jumper), it’s not the sleek blonde 1930s hair, it’s not the bored vacant look. It’s all the things above put together.

I’m not blocking this guy’s eyes because this is not embarrassing for him, this is a tribute. He’s ACE.













(unrelated to anything written above)

…and I would like to put pictures of HIM on here, pictures from HIS gaydar profile that he gave to ___, just to show what HE looks like, but I’m scared that people will only say HE’s better than me and what happened can be justified…

PS. Does anyone speak Spanish and can translate this for me? Say if - completely hypothetically of course - somebody had written that in the "Looking for" section of their profile.

I tried internet translations but it doesn't work. Maybe it's Gran Canaria slang or something...


EDIT: We now have a translation. Apparently this means: GUYS LIKE ME. I PASS ON FAGS AND FEMMES

Wow, this just keeps getting better.

Monday, 28 April 2008

Tuesday 29/04/08

Athens Day Three 

On Easter Sunday my sister and I get up and drive to the summer house where Mummy and Daddy have gone earlier in the morning and then some more relatives turn up (cousins? aunts? uncles? I can’t be sure) and everyone starts eating whole spit roast lambs, lamb intestines including lamb bowels (not kidding) and kidneys and livers – a meal that a cousin affectionately refers to as a cholesterol party. 

This is a picture of our lamb on the spit.  Looking back at it now, I’m thinking maybe I should have eaten some.

During the day my parents also make and receive dozens of phonecalls from other relatives, more remote relatives, random acquaintances they haven’t spoken to since last year, to wish them a happy Easter.  In Greece Easter is bigger than Christmas, New Year’s Eve and national holidays combined. 

My part in this is: I eat the chicken I’ve made Mummy cook for me / tell everyone stories about my girlfriend in London / avoid to mention my relocation to Australia under Mummy’s instructions (it’s too shameful to tell the wider family) / wish a happy Easter to the occasional great-uncle when I’m forced to by Daddy on the phone / answer the question “when are you going to come back and live in Greece and stop hurting your parents” numerous times as politely and vaguely as I can. 

By 1400 I’ve completely lost interest in any of this, I’m growing increasingly tired and grumpy, I have nothing to do, there is no internet connection at the summer house and the TV reception is appalling, so I go in one of the rooms and lie there on the bed and start rating all my songs on iTunes.

Then my sister drives us home, then Mummy and Daddy also come, then everyone interferes in each other’s business and makes intrusive decisions about everyone else’s life (as Greek people do) and then it’s bedtime. 

On Monday morning I happen to be at the airport, so I catch a flight back to London. 

By Monday evening I’m single, but we don’t talk about a) love, b) sex and c) work here, we never have and we never will. 

Wednesday, 23 April 2008

Thursday 24/04/08

This is obviously not London Preppy. Too fucking jolly to be London Preppy. He's just a friend.


And this friend said:

So I'm going to Athens for the weekend and I thought I'd tell you this in person, because it's the decent thing to do. And if I sound too gay I'm not going to put this up. Which means I'll now get 35 anonymous comments saying "oh you sound too fucking gay"; but...that's it. Bye.

Monday, 21 April 2008

Tuesday 22/04/08

Saturday is the day when everyone is flying out to different destinations, and by everyone I mean Matty and Nicole who are going to Sydney for a year, and Scott who is going to Gran Canaria for a week.  Matty’s flight is at 2230 and Scott’s flight is at 2200, so around that time I’m sitting at home high on diesel and gasoline and six double chocolate muffins, and exchanging farewell text messages / emails / phonecalls with those guys.  Then I go to bed around 0200. 

On Sunday morning I go to Selfridges to buy some new Calvin Klein underwear for when I dress up as Marky Mark for Enid’s party.   But the Calvin Klein underwear section has way too much variety and I must be standing there staring into space looking very confused for quite a long time, when some woman comes up to me and asks if I need any help. 

And this woman is older than the average Selfridges salesperson (50?) and she has an accent, so I ask her what the underwear box means when it says the pants include a Profile Enhancer (which is blatantly code for “padding to make your knob look bigger”), because I want to make her feel embarrassed and see what she says.  And the woman pauses for a few seconds and says that this underwear “provides more support at the front”.  Then I buy three pairs of non-Profile Enhancer underwear, even though believe me I need it, and leave. 

Then I go to the gym and as I walk through Soho on my way there, two Greek people go past and one of them says to the other: By the way, you know this is where all the fags hang out?  And the word he uses for “fags” is very spiteful and derogative – fags is the closest translation I can come up with, but think a little worse (for Greek readers, the actual phrase he says is: “En to metaksi ksereis oti edo einai oles oi aderfares”.  So yes, I’m definitely looking forward to my weekend visit to Athens. 

Finally, on Sunday I make my first attempt at the Good Vibrations video and also decide that it might be the last one too.  I am certainly not posting that thing, but here are some caps to assess the ridiculousness for yourself.  

I think I’m only acceptable as a human being when I remain static.  And silent.  And blank.

"I'm young and I'm black and my hat's real low" (Jay-Z)

"Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks" (Dr Dre)

"I ain't been out a second and I already gotta do some muthafuckin chin checkin" (Snoop Dogg)

"Gun pop, heart stop, homie this is heavy" (50 Cent)

"Is you knowin what you facin?" (Noreaga)

"Straight to the hotel, she suck dick and fuck well" (Ol Dirty Bastard)

"A hardcore player from the streets" (Ice T)

"Want a foot rub?" (Destiny's Child)

"Hittin' mutha-fuckas up when we pass by" (Tupac)

"My baby takes the morning train" (Sheena Easton)

The end

Sunday, 20 April 2008

Monday 21/04/08

On Friday after the gym I meet Donnell and we go for dinner in Soho and then Donnell suggests we go to the cinema, which is fine by me because I have a book (An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison) and my iPod with me. 

And the film we choose to see is called Fools Gold, and it’s not a cinematic adaptation of the Stone Roses song as I was led gto believe, but it’s a ridiculous adventure with Matthew McConaughey and Goldie Hawn, or somebody who’s like Goldie Hawn a lot, only charmless. 

And this film drags on quite a long time – 5? 6 hours we're in there? – and as Donnell complains about the tedious plot I tell him it’s a good thing I’m not paying attention and then I go out and take pictures of the empty bathroom to kill some time. 

And what I take away from this film, a film that Matthew McConaughey spends 93% of shirtless, is that Matthew McConaughey goes to the gym a lot, but still manages to be one of the least sexually attractive people out there.  On the way out Donnell and I draw parallels between the way we look and the way Matthew McConaughey looks and conclude that we’re not too dissimilar and I’m thinking thank God some people out there find this look attractive, because I certainly don’t. 

On Saturday morning, Scott’s at mine and I ask him to come to the Gap with me, because I want his advise on a shirt I want to buy and Scott says, you don’t really want my advise, do you, and I says, you’re right, I just need somebody to agree with me. 

So Scott comes and agrees with me and I buy this shirt and then we go to Boots where I buy a knee support thing, which I’ll have to wear next weekend when I go back home for Greek Easter, to hide my leg tattoo from my parents. 

Then I go to the gym (my weekend one) and I do another good workout, still fueled by Friday’s motivation from the personal trainer plus two cans of sugar-free Red Bull – it’s Saturday and I don’t mind not sleeping at night. 

And during this workout I only listen to two songs – alternating between them – and these songs are Good Vibrations by Marky Mark and 99 Problems by Jay-Z.  During this gym session, I decide that these are the only two songs I ever want to work out to. 

I have mentioned before how much I can relate to Marky Mark’s lyrics, because we’re both so street, but 99 Problems also seems to be written for me.  Plus it features the best dialogue ever put down in lyrical form, which happens when – during the song – a policeman asks Jay-Z to pull over (Jay-Z is not happy) and the following exchange occurs: 

Policeman: "Son do you know why I'm stoppin' you for?"

Jay-Z: “Cause I'm young and I'm black and my hats real low?

Do I look like a mind reader sir, I don't know” 

And right now, on this Sunday afternoon that I’m writing this, I make a promise to myself that I’ll live my life following the following dictum, ongoing: 

Cause I’m young and I’m black and my hat’s real low 

Also in the gym, I see a pale guy that I like and at some point I go up to him and ask him what this exercise he’s doing is for, like I have no idea, just to make some contact with him.  I don’t want anything more obviously, just a two second verbal interaction is enough to satisfy my sexual needs with anyone. 

After the gym I go to Soho and I meet Alexei, who’s back from a trip back home in the States and he’s wearing a Ralph Lauren shirt which I have to take a picture of…

…and we chat and he drinks and I eat and he also tells me for the first time that he also writes a blog, a blog where I’m referred to as Patrick Bateman (although I’m clearly Clay), even before he met me (he was aware of the blog before he saw me in real life) and this blog can be found here.

Saturday, 19 April 2008

Sunday 20/04/08

On Friday at 1730 I go to the gym and this is not my usual gym, but a different one in (very) central London.  On Friday I’m planning to do legs. 

So I go in and get changed and as I’m about to start, I see this personal trainer guy who I know through Scott and Donnell and this personal trainer guy (who I’ll refer to as PTG from now on) tells me that he’s going to train me today, because he has some time to kill. 

So I says OK.  And over the next hour I get the best workout that I’ve ever had.  We do legs as I had planned, which includes squats / lunges / some twisty lunges / leg curls / leg extensions / calf raises, but we do them in a way I’ve never done them before. 

And during the workout PTG also tells me that a) I should work out my back more, because I seem to be concentrating on my chest too much and my posture is quite bad.  Also, b) when I complain during the workout because it’s too hard, he tells me that I should always work hard, because my body has good potential and I could look so much better than I do now.  

Obviously I like both these things because they come from somebody who knows what he’s talking about and I like the criticism because it recognizes that no, my body of course isn’t amazing (like some people wrongly tell me, but thankfully I have more sense than to believe them) and there is lots of room for improvement. 

Also during the workout: 

-       I find it difficult to walk to the water fountain during breaks, because my legs are hurting and they have never been worked out so well before 

-       PTG tells me that he reads my blog 

-       PTG tells me some first hand experiences with Marky Mark 

-       PTG asks me if I lay out my outfits for each day the night before (because I write so much about them in the blog) and I say that no, they’re all in my head, and it’s not such a big deal anyway, I’m sure everyone plans their outfits, they just don’t share this in a psychopathic way with thousands of people online like I do 

-       PTG gives me information on some other guy in the gym, who I kinda think is sexy but not really (I would let him suck my cock – that kind of sexy), but it turns out that he’s straight 

So there you have it.  The best workout ever, real-life Marky Mark stories, honesty and motivation.  What else do you need from a personal trainer. 

If anyone actually needs a personal trainer I couldn’t recommend PTG any higher, so do let me know and I’ll give you his contact details. 

And this comes after my previous experience with personal training earlier this year (read Jack aka Aussie PT stories here and here - the second one probably being my personal favourite post ever), which had put me off personal training as a concept and I thought it was a waste of money.  But of course I was fucking wrong. 

Staying with body related stories, I mentioned buying the DVD for Real World – Las Vegas earlier in the week, and I should admit that the main reason I bought it is because of Frank Roessler.  Frank is one of the participants and in my own little world I hold him up on a pedestal as having the most perfect body ever. 

These are some pictures of Frank.

At some point in the show Frank says that he used to be a really thin and scrawny when he was younger and then he hit the gym.  You can definitely see this in the pictures above, because this is not a body you can achieve after having ever been overweight / carrying the fat gene. 

If you start from being naturally very thin, all you have to do is do your weights and build up the muscles on top of your slim frame.  On the other hand, if you’re normal and/or fat, you have the extra step of stripping off the fat first before you start thinking about putting muscle on. 

But even then, I don’t think you can achieve proportions like these (see Frank above).  He has very big arms and a very muscled and defined chest (droopy – as Scott might say) but the boy literally still has no waist and no body fat. 

This is not what Marky Mark looks like at all, even though he has a very appealing body shape as well.  Look at the Marky Mark pictures below.  This boy has big arms and chest and all that, but his waist is a lot bulkier than Franks.  His whole frame is rounder.

Saying that, these are not the only two attractive body shapes for me.  I definitely find equally sexy people who are naturally big and strong, even if that means they have some excess fat around the waist / overall really.  One example of this type of person is Ben Cohen – of course I’m not saying you could say he's fat by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m sure his body fat is more than Frank’s or Marky Mark’s.

Now finally, thinking about where I fit in in all this, I would guess somewhere in between Frank and Marky Mark, because I have that naturally scrawny thing going on, but I’m not tall like Frank and I’m not as round as Marky Mark. 

Can people please comment which of the three body types above they prefer the most?  I need to know.

And finally, finally, I’m sort of realizing that I do want to make more effort in the gym and be better, but I need the help of a personal trainer. And because I can’t afford one, if there are any personal trainers reading this who would like to train me occasionally – once a week? once a fortnight? – for charity perhaps (because I AM a charitable case) please let me know.  

I'm going to Sydney soon and as Mean pointed out if I didn't have a good body I wouldn't have any friends, and I need to make some friends over there.

Saturday 19/04/08

On Thursday I finish work and I skip the gym and I catch the tube and I go to Hammersmith.  At Hammersmith station I go to Tesco and I buy smoked salmon and cherry tomatoes, which I eat sitting on a bench just outside, next to a Muslim woman in headscarf and black robes covering her whole face/body to stop men from lusting over her, which I find very presumptuous on her part anyway. 

Then I walk to Hammersmith Apollo, join the queue, get to the door, show my ticket, have my bag searched, get told that I’m not allowed to take my water bottle in with me, put the water bottle in a big plastic bag, pick up my water bottle from the big plastic bag when the security guy turns his head, go in, sit and wait for a bit, watch Bjork play a concert.

Last time I saw Bjork play a concert was in 1995.  This was also my first concert ever. 

This time, 13 years later, we still fucking like Bjork.  I’m not good at describing positive experiences, so I won’t even try, but during the gig I: 

-       Do not get bored much 

-       Try to make myself cry during Army Of Me; cry for the person I was when I first heard it 13 years ago and cry for the person I am now 

-       Fail to cry 

-       Shout the words to Hyperballad back to Bjork when Bjork wants me to 

-       Consider that I love Bjork.  Realise that I can’t actually love (or hate) a person I don’t know, think of the people that hate (or love) me from reading my blog, settle that I love what Bjork produces for consumption from a wider audience and assign this feeling to her actual person, conclude that people love or hate me for what I produce for a wider audience and assign these feelings to my actual person 

-       Think of the supermarket I did my food shopping in when I was in Reykjavik and try to picture Bjork in there (chances are she must have been there at some point) 

-       Wonder if Bjork is nervous at all standing there in front of all those people 

-       Make sure the people either side of me can see when I’m mouthing the lyrics 

-       Make sure the people either side of me cannot see when I’m not mouthing the lyrics (when I don’t know them) 

-       Receive a text from Scott asking if Bjork is screamy / reply yes 

-       Hate the fact that some people start leaving before the end when they realize it’s the last song “to avoid the crowds” 

Then Bjork finishes singing Declare Independence and I leave the Hammersmith Apollo with a few thousand other people, we walk to the tube, we get on the train, I take my iPod out, put Pagan Poetry by Bjork on, leave it out long enough for people around me to notice I haven’t had enough, listen to Pagan Poetry a few times, get home.

Finally, Scott once saw Bjork walking around in Camden and he went up to her and said, you are Bjork aren't you, to which Bjork said, no I'm not, to which Scott said, yes you are, you are Bjork.  I would never, ever walk up and talk to a celebrity.

Thursday, 17 April 2008

Thursday 16/04/08

Because the beating that I take through everyday life just isn't enough for me... 

...and due to the fact that I like to build up my hopes, work myself into a crescendo of anticipation and excitement, live under the delusion that things will get better because let's face it, how much further down can you go when you've already stalled at the bottom for two years and eleven months... 

...so that when reality crashes down on me I am even more shattered (which is something I blatantly get my kicks out of)... 

I have taken to reading my daily horoscope in the Metro on the way to work.  And I expect this one day to tell me that, yes, everything will be fine, all the rules of the universe will be reversed and I'll come out carefree and I'll come out sane.  And when that day comes, when my horoscope decides to give me another chance, I'll suck it all up, I won't question a thing, I'll just move on with my new life victorious, happy, an unexpected winner. 

And on Wednesday, my horoscope reads: 

"A charming, sociable Wednesday, during which everyone wants to be on your side.  It’s not your new aftershave, it’s not your budging wallet or even your film star looks.  It’s your positivity.  It’s catching" 



Budging wallet?

Film star?


Fully aware that the only way my positivity can be described as catching is the way that it catches people by the throat and violently chokes them, I take another hit, as the knowledge sinks in that my last source of hope...the daily horoscope...has also turned against me and is now taking the piss. 

Then I go to work, then I work, then I receive a DVD boxset of Real World:Las Vegas through the post, then I go to the gym where I do shoulders, then I go home. 

At home I argue with Scott over who we're voting for at the London Mayor election and when he strongly disputes my choice I argue back that I don't know and I don't care really and I'm just choosing my candidate based on the political party they represent and this political party has to be what my parents have been voting for all their lives, and isn't that how everyone makes their choice, that's what I'm doing anyway, so there. 

And safe in the knowledge that imbecilic ignorami like me set the course of this country, any country really, with their misinformed voting and lack of knowledge on anything, I watch the Apprentice and go to bed resting assured that the world of Business is fucked as well.

On Thursday night:

...but more about that later.

Wednesday, 16 April 2008

Wednesday 16/04/08

So on Tuesday Enid sends me a message and this message says that she’s having a fancy dress party in the beginning of May and I’m very welcome to go as Marky Mark.  And the timing for this is very convenient (after I expressed an interest two days ago to be invited to a fancy dress party), a little too convenient perhaps, which makes me think that this is a set up, and I will turn up with no shirt and my pants jacked up above my waistline looking like an idiot, and everyone else will be dressed normally coming straight from work.  But I’ll go anyway. 

On Tuesday lunchtime I’m walking around and I go in Virgin Megastore which in now called Zavvi but that doesn’t make any sense, and as I’m going up the escalator they start playing Suedehead by Morrissey and for some reason this gets to me and I almost feel like crying.  Because I like Morrissey so much.  But I can’t even remember the last time I cried (am I unable to anymore? I hope so), so of course I don’t, but I just stand there and scan the TV comedy DVD section until the song finishes and when it’s followed by something or other from Blur, I leave. 

Back in the office, and having taken that as a sign, I go online and buy a ticket for a festival where Morrissey is playing later this year.  I say festival, but it’s not really, it’s just some park in central London and I can walk there from my house in a few minutes.  I guess it’s a festival for people who don’t really like festivals, like me.  I have held out from buying a ticket for weeks now, because I don’t like to pay for things much and I was living in hope that somehow I could get hold of a free ticket for this, but on this Tuesday afternoon I’m weak, weaker than I’ve been for a long time, so I give in. 

A Girl is also going and for this festival appearance I am: not wearing a shirt, but I’m writing in black marker pen in huge writing the words CRIMINALLY (on my chest) and VULGAR (on my back) after the lyrics from How Soon Is Now? 

Later that afternoon, Scott sends me an email which says that he thinks he’s lost the cat (he’s taken it back to his flat now) and I ask him where he last saw it and he says near the balcony and the balcony door was open.  So for the next 15, maybe 20 minutes I work on the assumption that the cat has jumped off the balcony, and I email Pam to tell her this… 

…and Pam asks me whether I noticed any suicidal tendencies during the time when I was housemates with Momo, so I say that he did seem quite disturbed mentally, and there was this one time when I found him hanging from my bedroom light with a noose around its neck, but I didn’t make much of it. 

Then Scott emails again and he says: Found the cat. He was behind the living room door! Silly cat. 

And at this point I don’t want to jump to conclusions about who is on more drugs – Scott or Momo – but I’m going to assume it’s pretty close. 

After work in the gym, I: 

-          do arms and abs

-          avoid making eye contact with the gays I half-know so that I don’t have to say hi to them

-          attempt to make eye contact with the straights that I like just in case they’re willing to experiment

-          see one of the unshapely personal trainers eat chicken breasts with breadcrumbs (breadcrumbs!) and roll my eyes at him

-          shower and steal the towel which I later put in the bin outside

-          watch one of the fit personal trainers go on a sunbed even though he’s nice and pale in a good way 

…decide that when I move to Sydney on the 25th of October and for the following months that I live there I will not sunbathe / go on a sunbed / get a tan, in fact I will avoid it completely and when I go to the beach I will stay in the shade, because I’m planning to be completely and utterly ghostly pale for the duration of my stay.  And I have about six months to let my body get rid of any melanin it’s accumulated in the last few months / wash out any tinted moisturiser I’ve applied, starting now*. 

*I reserve the right to change my mind about all this several times.