Wednesday, 28 May 2008

Thursday 29/05/08

On Tuesday I’m back at work, which I won’t pretend doesn’t make me suicidal and then suddenly it’s lunchtime. This lunchtime I’m in need of a book, a book that will replace Dry by Augusten Burroughs, who I’m afraid I had to dump because it was getting quite inaccurate, too inaccurate and I couldn’t bear reading it anymore.

It all started going wrong when Augusten Burroughs mentioned an encounter with an English guy, an encounter that the writer chose to describe like this (this is them bonding in a humorous way as Augusten Burroughs – an American – gently pokes fun at the English guy:

(This scene occurs over breakfast)

“These are delicious," he says of the reconstituted scrambled eggs, the same eggs that sit on my own plate, untouched.

So far I have lost almost ten pounds. "You're from London, what would you know?"

He laughs, "That's very true, actually. This is far better than anything my mother ever made."

I make a face. "Did you have that nasty, yeasty stuff they spread on toast, what's it called?"

His eyes brighten. "Vegemite! Oh yes, I love Vegemite."

"You'll enjoy dinner then," I promise him.

I’m sorry but this is ridiculous. Vegemite is an Australian product cliché. English people eat Marmite. Which is very different. I don’t expect everyone to know this by heart (especially someone who lives in America), but this guy wrote a book and shoved it in our faces. Why should I bother to read his stupid book if he didn’t bother to properly research his facts?

Mind you as I said I didn’t abandon the book just because of the Vegemite / Marmite debacle. I’m very open-minded as you know (ahem) and I kept reading. However, over the next fifty pages or so, Augusten continues to rub my face in his shoddy research and ridiculously inaccurate “facts” (concerning everything from geography to HIV to fashion) and I’m sorry I’m not going to read that. I find it quite offensive.

Anyway, back to Tuesday lunchtime, when I go in Borders and I browse Fiction for, what, 42 minutes? And I end up buying Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.

Then I go over to the magazine section where I look through: NME, Q, Arena, Arena Homme Plus and then I find myself unfortunate enough to walk past the gay press and I stop there because I want to damage a few more brain cells (hopefully once I cross the line between semi-intelligent and completely idiotic I will stop hurting so much), and I see Gay Times has a Readers’ Awards 2008 feature shouting at me from the cover.

So I think, I can’t miss that, I have to see what the Gay Times readers like these days, I like to hurt myself like that, I’ll take the pain and the shame any time of the day thanks. So I open Gay Times and read the following:

Best Club in London:



3.Horsemeat Disco

Best Clothing Brand:

1.Dolce & Gabbana



Best Holiday Destination:


2.New York

3.The Maldives

Hero of the Year:

1.Kylie Minogue

2.Peter Tatchell

3.Anthony Grey

All Time Female Icon:

1.Kylie Minogue

2.Judy Garland


And anyone who thought that it’s an offensive cliché to portray gay people as Dolce-wearing, Kylie-booty-shaking, G.A.Y-visiting, Ibiza-holidaying, Judy Garland-idolising cattle, I guess hasn’t been reading Gay Times recently.

Avoiding the temptation to give myself symmetrical paper cuts across the eyes with its pages or even causing voluntary impotence by dropping 75 copies of the magazine on my knob, I put Gay Times back on the shelf, and leave.

PS. Who is Judy Garland anyway, and what has she done and why is she admired by the gays? In fact, please don’t answer this, I don’t want to know.

PPS. Would anyone like to get me a subscription for NME or Q magazine please? The NME annual one is only £65 and Q is about £45, I’d like that very much. Or get me a 6-month one actually, cause I'm going away.

Tuesday, 27 May 2008

Wednesday 28/05/08

This is Sunday I think and on this possibly Sunday I take the tube to go to some club. I will try to ignore the fact that on the tube on the way there I see the sexiest guy I will see for the rest of the night and he’s straight and with his girlfriend.

I choose to take this as a slap in the face and also I choose to take a picture or two and here they are. I’m sat opposite them but they don’t notice me doing this, they are too busy being love, I’m sure if I concentrate hard enough I can almost recreate that feeling and see what it’s like. Wait, I just tried and I can’t.

The pictures don’t do him justice of course, you have to be there to have his bulging chest, insane arms, straight nose, big legs, perfect toes in your face to really appreciate him, but anyway.

And here are some clubbing pictures and quotes.

“I saw you dancing holding your left arm up before. That tattoo is paying for itself, isn’t it?”

“You’re quite asexual, aren’t you?” “Yes, I’d say I am”. “So am I. Maybe we can be asexual together some time”.

“Did you go out last night” “Yes, guess what, ___ collapsed and was taken to hospital”. “Oh my God, is he all right?” “Yes, he’ll be here at 2030”.

“Are you coming to mine after this? I’ve got recordings of Malcolm In The Middle and Have I Got News For You on Sky+”

“What does your boyfriend think of your incessant ___?”

That’s all I have I’m afraid, I wasn’t intending on writing a clubbing post so I wasn’t taking notes.
PS. Erm...happy 500,000 hits.

Tuesday 27/05/08

EDIT: To the people who've complained about me not publishing their country of origin / country of residence comment yesterday - I'm sorry, I did publish everything I received. I don't know why some of them didn't show up.

This is Saturday morning and on Saturday morning I clean my bathroom and kitchen (although not very carefully) and hoover the flat and do my food shopping and then I go to town where I meet Scott and we go to the gym, where we do arms in a way that shows that we can’t be bothered, we don’t really want to be there and then Scott goes off to meet Brendan and I go to the shops.

And Saturday morning is sunny and warm (despite the rest of the weekend being cold and rainy) and lots of people are wearing shorts and flip flops and sunglasses and I’m wearing jeans and a 1970s Greece football shirt and trainers (and I don’t have my sunglasses with me) and I feel inadequate for not having worn shorts, I feel like I’ve failed myself.

So I go to Topman at Oxford Circus which is insanely busy and overwhelming and prompts me to send the following message to both Donnell and Scott…

“I love Topman. It’s full of cheap clothes I want to buy and pseudo-fashionable boys I want to fuck”

…and I buy two skinny ties (one black, one grey) pick up some shorts but the queue for the changing room is too long so I put them back, pay for my ties, wonder what I’m going to do in Sydney with no Topman, no H&M and no Gap and leave.

Later in the evening I go to a friend’s house to watch Eurovision and this friend is from Cyprus and during this Eurovision evening the following things happen:

- There are seven guests in total: two Cypriots, one Spanish, one English, one Canadian, on Venezuelan, one Greek (me)
- When the time to vote comes I realise that the number is blocked from my mobile phone (which is provided and paid for by work) because it’s a high rate number (or something). Before panic sets in, the English guy offers me his phone (also provided by work but with a more liberal policy) and I vote for Greece five times
- The non-European guests don’t understand why I dive to the floor every time Greece gets a top score from any other country
- Greece finishes third. I’m happy with that

During this event, I exchange messages with Tom and Alexei who are attending a different Eurovision party, which quite frankly sounds a lot better (fuelled with a lot more alcohol and __) as Alexei later reveals that there are points where people attempt to recreate Kalomira’s breakdown. I won’t pretend this is something I haven’t blacked out and hallucinated I’m doing.

Oh yes, I’d also like to point out that the Greek entry (artist: Kalomira, song title: Secret Combination, you’ll need these for when you’re buying it) is now available to buy in UK iTunes and at some point on Tuesday it was at number 39 in the top 100, which makes it the highest selling Eurovision song this year in the UK, even higher than the UK entry. I like to kid myself that it might be in the official chart on Sunday.

Anyway, on Sunday I go to the gym and then I eat (but not much) and then at 1830 I go clubbing. I will put up a usual clubbing post tomorrow, so how about you don’t come and read it if you’re offended by that sort of thing?

In the meantime, here’s a list of the foods I consume on Monday, during the day, post-clubbing:

Four individual pizzas (barbecue chicken)
Dough balls with garlic butter dip (approx 12)
Two chicken breasts with beans
Three chocolate muffins
Four ice cream cones
Bag of popcorn (butter flavour)
Three eggs with toast

I’m starting to think it’s worth going clubbing just for the food the day after.

Sunday, 25 May 2008

Sunday 25/05/08

Just a couple of favours:

Would everyone be so kind as to leave a comment, simply with two words: the country where you're from and the country where you live. So if I were me (which I am), I would leave this:

Greece / England

Or if I still lived in Greece, I would leave:

Greece / Greece

I'm just curious, thanks.

Also, if anyone has a remix of Kalomira's Secret Combination that's called Electropop Mix, could you please send me a file? (Perhaps someone Greek who's reading this?), I'd appreciate it. It costs 79p on iTunes but somehow I'm reluctant to pay for any music, especially Eurovision related music. Thanks a lot.
EDIT: Thanks, got that now, thanks to everyone who sent it!

Saturday, 24 May 2008

Saturday 24/05/08

On Thursday after the gym I get home to watch the second Eurovision semi-final, but this is a lot less exciting, mainly because it lacks such vital / life-changing performances as the Greek one from Tuesday.  In any case, to sum up, my favourite entries this year are: 

1) Greece: Because I am genetically pre-programmed to like this regardless of its objective quality and merit, not that anyone can question the quality and merit of that breakdown, plus the ingenious and discreet passing round of the microphone when Kalomira needs to have her hands free so she can grope herself during that Jennifer Lopez impersonation 

2) France: Because I genuinely like this and it’s produced by Daft Punk and I will continue listening to it as a serious song on my iPod after this whole circus has ended 

3) Iceland: Because this is the most ridiculous/sublime entry this year and I don’t understand how a country of 300,000 has managed to find talent to put together a) a song that sounds like a hi-NRG Adam Rickitt b-side from 1997, b) amazing matching costumes combining fuchsia and black, c) a choreography where the two performers are following round all the different camera angles as they change every five seconds like that Chucky doll with the spinning head.  Can this country do no wrong? 

Incidentally, I am not implying that any of these people will win, it’s just who I like.  Apart from Greece who will actually win. 

On Friday I’m wearing the same G-Star jeans I wore last Friday, the same white Lonsdale trainers, but this time I’m wearing a Fred Perry belt to keep my trousers up instead of braces, because I’ve had enough of senior company staff snapping those against my chest.  I also decide to wear a shirt and this shirt is short sleeved, it’s light pink and it’s from Reiss. 

In the office everyone is playing the same old parts, this is starting to feel like a tired old sitcom that’s not funny anymore.  The script writers have taken the day off again (it’s a long weekend with Monday being a bank holiday and they’re making the most of it), so we’re all left to improvise and ad-lib.  My lines aren’t very good – but I was never cast for my acting skills – and I suspect I’ll be written off soon, some ridiculous storyline about moving to Australia or something. 

After work I go to the gym where I don’t use the gym but I use the swimming pool and then I go home where I have some salmon and two tomatoes, maybe three, who’s counting and then I head out. 

And to head out I’m wearing: Energie jeans, Adidas trainers, black I *heart* NY t-shirt which I’ve peeled the I and NY from so it only has a big *heart* on it and I’ve also ripped it down the side to look like Superman.  Also I’m wearing a big silver chain around my neck, which I thought might go, probably not though. 

And this outfit looks like this.  (Please note contrived casual pose with hand in pocket, trying to look cool, which only goes to indicate the opposite)

So I go to town and I meet Alexei, Ryan and Tom and some of their friends at the Box and we play the parts of people who socialize and are out having a laugh on a Friday evening. 

Then I take my ridiculous outfit (which I wore to entertain/provide laughs as Tom points out and I definitely agree) and I head back home. 

For this trip back home I choose to take the bus, because the tube doesn’t feel safe for reasons I can’t get into, won’t get into and as I never take the bus I feel particularly lucky when the bus I have chosen takes me near my house – eventually. 

At home I watch a couple of episodes of American Dad, then I turn over to a programme called The Greatest Ever Screen Chases, so I watch the greatest screen chases numbers 15 to 12, then it gets a bit claustrophobic and that’s when I crush half a Valium, go to bed.

Finally, I want to thank the people who've sent gifts through Amazon and/or monetary contributions and whatever else.  I really appreciate it.  Because I like stuff.  And money/  And even though I don't see the blog as a job, and I don't think that I need to get rewarded for it, it certainly takes up the time of a part-time one anyway.

Thursday, 22 May 2008

Friday 23/05/08

On Wednesday I’m at work and I’m staring at the wall, maybe the ceiling, maybe a print-out (I can’t be sure – after a while everything blends into one, into nothing) and then this guy comes back from lunch and he announces that he just went to a book shop and bought books after a very long time. And I’m thinking, wait, I’ve got to listen to this, even I need a good laugh every now and then.

So some girl who works for him (tall, blonde, genuine pain in her eyes) takes the bait and asks: so what did you get?

And I’m thinking, please don’t say Afflu

And he says: I got Affluenza and I got something called Watching the English.

And at this point I must stress how much I hate Affluenza. Affluenza is a new mock-sociology book that’s currently being advertised all over the tube and it’s written for people who are so bleeding thick that they can’t make their reading choices outside gigantic billboards. It is also another one in the series of appalling pop-psychology/sociology non-fiction must-reads, again for people who are fucking brainless and only read what their colleagues recommend, so that they have some small talk material for the office water fountain. Other books like that include Freakonomics and The Status Anxiety.

And at this point I must stress how much I hate Watching the English. Again, an absurd fad book that delves into everything and teaches you nothing. The reading choice for people who don’t enjoy reading, the literary equivalent of buying a Beatles Greatest Hits.

God, I’m so bitter, I hadn’t realised. No wait, that’s a lie, I had.

Anyway, even though I’m having an amazing time at work evidently, I do have to leave at some point and I choose to go to the gym.

I get to the gym at 1800 and I’m not expecting to see Superman there because it’s too early for him (he usually turns up around 1830-1840), but when I get to the changing room, he’s already there in his gym clothes, ready to train, way ahead of schedule.

And I’ve never doubted that he’s straight but this is further proof: over the next hour he does a speedy workout, like he’s in a mad rush, like he needs to be somewhere at 1945. And none of us gays may know this, but this Wednesday is a huge day for anyone who’s English and straight: the Champions League Final features two English clubs (Man U and Chelsea) for the first time ever. And the game kicks off at 1945. If you’re English and straight and you miss this, you either have some serious brain damage or you’re gay (insert your own jokes connecting the two).

So Superman trains like crazy doing half-sets and skipping abs and watching the clock, and when I get to the changing room at 1910 he’s already showered and dressed and practically ready to run out of there.

And if we needed any final confirmation that he is, in fact, straight, he gets the deodorant out, sprays it all over his clothes (yes, on his trousers, on his shirt, over his head) and leaves.

I think I might leave Superman out for a bit, because a) he’s defo straight, b) nothing exciting is going to happen and c) I’m getting quite bored already.

PS. Oh my God. I have just discovered my favourite new artist that I've heard for ages. Go download Je veux te voir by Yelle to start with. It's French electro, a bit like Daft Punk mixed with Mia.

Which reminds me, do people mind it when I recommend songs/talk about bands? I'm sure there's a few people out there who are interested...yes/no?

Wednesday, 21 May 2008

Thursday 22/05/08

On Tuesday I’m at work and then I have to go to a client meeting and for this client meeting I’m wearing a navy pinstripe suit from ___, pink and white striped shirt from Zara, black leather belt from Hugo Boss, black leather shoes from Hugo Boss, black socks from I don’t know where.  I have decided to edit out (i.e. use ___) some of the brands of the clothes that I mention/wear, because I’m not proud of them, in fact I’m embarrassed.  

And these brands are high fashion brands that some people really aspire to, more specifically people who get facials, refer to Dolce & Gabbana as “Dolce”, go to house parties with hired staff serving champagne and (pretend to) read Wallpaper*.  I have nothing against that crowd anyway; I’m just not part of it. 

I can mention other fashion brands that are not in that category (e.g Hugo Boss, Ralph Lauren), but I’m imposing a self-ban on: Dior, Prada, Gucci, Versace, Armani, etc.  Not that I own anything by the last two. 

So anyway, I go to that meeting and I’m with my boss, and when we get there it becomes apparent that wearing a suit has been the wrong choice, because this is a media company and the people who work there are dressed in jeans and trainers (the men) or jeans and these ridiculous tiny ballet shoes that women wear (the women) or hotpants and heels (the receptionist).  Not to mention that they have boards and multi-coloured chalk in reception for people to be creative at lunchtime and floor-to-ceiling abstract art everywhere.  Seeing all this, I take off my jacket and undo another shirt button, and I kid myself that this makes all the difference between a) somebody who’s there to work with them in a friendly manner and b) somebody who’s there for a hostile takeover. 

After all this work and fun, I go to the gym where Superman isn’t, and I won’t even pretend that The Superman Song by the Crash Test Dummies comes on my iPod by chance; the truth is, I put it on myself, and I listen to it non-stop until I finish my workout (key lyric: “And sometimes I despair the world will never see another man like him”), because I want to feel the pain, I want to feel the pain of everyone and then I want to feel nothing. 

Then I rush home, because it’s nearly 2000 and I have to watch the Eurovision semi-final that Greece is in.  And this is a semi-final with 19 counties, 10 of which will get through to the final on Saturday.  I may have mentioned before that I have a love/hate relationship with Greece, i.e. I can’t stand being there but at the same time I’ll support them in any international competition of any sort and I want them to do well in everything. 

In fact, there are few times that I’ve been happier in my life than when Greece won the Euro 2004 (that’s soccer in case American readers are not following).  This was a scene that was played thus: 

I have just moved to London a couple of months before, I don’t have really good friends yet, I’m living with a guy I went to Uni with, we hardly speak.  It’s Sunday night when the Euro final is on, I’m home alone, my housemate has left me (on the one night in my lifetime when my country is playing to win a major sporting tournament – but don’t worry, I moved out a few weeks later and haven’t spoken to him since), and I’m watching this on my own. 

I generally avoid even speaking but this time I’m shouting at the TV at regular intervals, I can’t sit down, I’m watching the whole thing standing up, when the referee blows the final whistle and Greece has won, I fall down on my knees like bad actors do in badly directed movies, drop my face in my hands, and sob. 

I can’t say I was equally shocked to the core / overjoyed when Greece won the Eurovision song contest in 2005, but I liked that one too. 

In any case, back to this Tuesday night, and this year’s Greek entry is a girl called Kalomira, a girl who’s as Greek as I’m English, i.e. she was born in the States and moved to Greece when she was 18 and she speaks broken Greek with a heavy American accent.  (fair enough she does have Greek parents though). 

So I’m watching all the other semi-finalists, Scott turns up (I like to share my over-excited moment with someone), Greece comes on, I obsess over it, Scott concedes it’s the best entry he’s seen so far, I make sure he doesn’t look away during the three minutes that Kalomira is on – he is NOT allowed to look away – a couple of hours later the results are in and Greece is through to the final. 

I don’t care how ridiculous Eurovision is, I don’t care if I’d never listen to this type of music for fun and neither would you, but do watch this clip from Tuesday night if you like and see what I got so excited about. 

If nothing else, just watch the breakdown at 02:23 to 02:40 and don’t look away.  I obsess over this breakdown.  If I were straight and were thinking of getting married, I would not marry a girl that cannot recreate that breakdown. 

Tuesday, 20 May 2008

Wednesday 21/05/08

This is Monday and even though Monday is supposed to be my day off from the gym this week, I decide to still go and train because I need to stalk Superman.  Let’s try to remember that I last saw him on Wednesday, then he wasn’t in on Thursday, then I wasn’t in on Friday, then it was the weekend.  This makes it a total of four days without love. 

Four days without love is not something to beat yourself up about really, but that’s only when you’re already in a relationship – not when you’re trying to start one.  When you’re trying to start a relationship, it’s best to have regular and frequent meetings with the object of your affection, because otherwise you might end up forgetting what they look like and then you’re back on square one.  And square one is the furthest away from love you can be. 

So this Monday I go to the gym and Scott insists on coming with me, something which I’m not happy with, because I need to appear: independent, alone, approachable.  In any case we turn up, and Superman is not there yet, so we start doing abs and then Superman turns up and I say bye to Scott and go over to do shoulders, near where Superman is.  

Superman is wearing a t-shirt that is not destroyed in any way so I can’t use my tattoo line as I was planning to (I can’t see it – as far as I know he doesn’t have one) and I can hardly go up to him and say: “I remember your tattoo from the last time I saw you five days ago, so tell me more about that”, because that might sound a little creepy. 

And unfortunately I have lost any sort of momentum I had with him two weeks ago when we chatted briefly about some exercise and now we don’t even say hi. 

But that’s OK, I think that Superman and I both know that these are just minor mishaps in our long-term love plan and we’ll get over them, we really will, and one day we’ll be looking back and thinking how silly we were playing these stupid games, talking / not talking to each other, sideways glances burning a hole in our hearts, the blind yet quiet desire elevating us to unreachable heights and punishing us to the very core at the same time. 

Then I collect Scott, we shower, and we go. 

On the way home I get a text from Donnell, and this Monday evening Donnell tells us:  “I am in Abercrombie buying an overpriced pair of clingy shorts to wear on Sunday, as usual I am overwhelmed by how flirty the guys in here are, you would have been crap at it”.  So I says to Donnell: “You are so ridiculous for still shopping at that stupid shop.  Are you: a) a 39-year-old out-of-shape queen from the suburbs or b) part of a straight couple in their early 30s who just bought their first flat in Chiswick?  These are the only demographics who shop there”.  Then Donnell tells us: “My shorts are cool to go clubbing in.  It’s not like you’ve thrown all you’re A&F stuff away, is it?  I’m not bothered about demographics”. 

And because I am bothered about demographics, here’s another request.  I have banged on about this in the past, but I won’t relent.  Is anyone in Iceland reading this?  Do we know anyone in Iceland?  I must have some Icelandic friends.  I must go back there before I move to Australia and I need to know people there who will show me round and perhaps put me up.  Why not. 

So maybe I should type some random Icelandic words to get some hits from there: 




Kerry Katona

Blue Lagoon


Blue Lagoon


Moose moose

And finally, quite randomly, here is a list of bands that I like from countries which are not exactly major in the international music scene.  If you are from one of these countries, can you please message me and let me know some brief info about the bands I mention?  I.e. Are they big there, are they cool and I’m allowed to like them or not, etc.  Thanks. 

Denmark – The Fashion

Sweden – Shout Out Louds

Sweden – Kent

Belgium – dEUS

Denmark – Grand Avenue

Monday, 19 May 2008

Tuesday 20/05/08

On Saturday afternoon I meet up with Scott and we go to the shops with a sole purpose: to buy t-shirts, t-shirts that can be ripped them up down the side. So we go to Bershka and Topman and H&M and Zara and the total purchases from these shops are: one green t-shirt with some writing at the front (writing which I can’t remember) to be ripped, two brown wifebeaters from Topman for £10 to be worn at the gym.

Then I go home where I proceed to rip my green t-shirt down the side, like Superman, like the animal that he is and the animal that I want to be. Then I try on the t-shirt and the look refuses to work on me, so I give up. Saying that, I don’t exactly give up all that much, because I will certainly be sporting all my ripped t-shirts at the first opportunity and I don’t care if Superman can do the look better – at the end of the day Superman can do everything better.

On Saturday evening I stay in and I try different designs for my new tattoo, a new tattoo which will be down the left side of my body and it will be an excerpt from a Bret Easton Ellis book. And this excerpt currently stands at 94 words (409 characters) and I’ve chosen to end it mid-sentence, because I like that, I like that a lot.

On Sunday I wake up and I go to the gym and for this trip to the gym I’m wearing: Energie jeans, Timberland deck shoes, pseudo-rugby top from the Gap, ridiculous backpack.

After the gym I meet up Scott and Mean and we go to Apostrophe for hot chocolate and when they serve me the hot chocolate it’s not thick enough so I complain, and then we sit down and we chat Mean informs us that the majority of straight people don’t trim down there, and we are shocked to hear that, in fact we refuse to believe it, and we consider ourselves lucky that we are not straight girls and would have to sleep with that demographic.

Are there any straight blokes or any straight girls reading this who can confirm or dispute this? What percentage of straight boys would you say groom?

Then I catch the tube with Scott to go home and then we argue over something and Scott gets off and goes back to Soho to meet up with Brendan and some others, leaving on me to travel back on my own, which is extremely inconsiderate if you take into account that I haven’t even brought a book with me.

Then I go home where I finish reading An Unquiet Mind (basically the memoir of a manic depressive psychiatrist who was so into it, she would have tried to catch it if she didn’t already have it) and then I start reading Dry by Augusten Burroughs, which is the memoir of some guy who seems a bit like me, only more alcoholic.

Thanks to readers who sent those books by the way.

Then Scott comes over and we watch the movie Renaissance Man and I play him some songs trying to make him like them (The Ting Tings, LCD Soundsystem, Suede), but Scott doesn’t get it, he never has and he never will, and then he goes home.

Finally, and this is a very random request - does anyone know where I can get old indie/'Britpop" band t-shirts? I had a quick look online and can't find what I want. And I want a Suede t-shirt.

Sunday, 18 May 2008

Monday 19/05/08

On Friday I go to work and for this Friday I have chosen to wear: dark G-Star jeans, tucked in orange and white stripy shirt from Topman (sleeves rolled up), blue/white stripy braces from Topman, white Lonsdale trainers.  And this is an outfit that looks like this (only in the picture I’m barefoot because I haven’t put on the shoes yet):

So I go to work and I live through it until 1400 when we’ve booked the court to go and play squash.  And squash is good fun apart from I haven’t played for three years and I lose miserably, and squash is also very sweaty and hurty and bleedy.  And it’s hurty and bleedy, because I may not be a very good player, but I am definitely a spectacular one, a player that doesn’t mind diving, jumping and leaping to get those difficult shots in (even though I still don’t). 

Then we shower, then I go to American Apparel to buy a new pair of underwear because I’ve sweated right through the old ones and I can’t wear them anymore, and then I go back to the office. 

In the office, I’m in the boardroom with some others doing something or nothing, and then the Managing Director comes in and he looks at me, and says: what kind if a get-up is this?  And I say what’s wrong with it?  And the Managing Director says that the dress code at work is “smart casual” but he’s not sure how my outfit today fits in with that.  And I say oh well, and then the Managing Director walks up to me and pulls my braces and snaps them against my chest. 

After 1730 it’s some work night out, which I decide to go along to because I’m very sociable like that and during this work night out we go to some pub, then we go to some restaurant, then I down three glasses of wine and a gin & tonic, and then I go home.  You can read more about that work night out at Fuzzy Logic’s blog here

On Saturday I go to the gym, where we may not have Superman, but we have Pale Personal Trainer (in the changing room no less) and PPT has his top off, and this time he has no chest rash, but he does have some chest hairs.  And now we know where the chest rash came from last time. 

Then this guy walks in the changing room and this guy is: late 30s, kinda small, definitely destroyed, most likely gay, shaved head (= bald), goatee, more or less the kind of person who spends Friday night to Monday morning at Fire, has ketamine for breakfast and GHB for dinner. 

And he says hi to PPT and from what I can gather the guy has used PPT at some point in the past, so they engage in some light banter, as their client/personal trainer relationship dictates. 

PPT says how are you, destroyed guy says good thanks, PPT says so how come you’re not in some club this weekend (I presume the guy has mentioned his clubbing habit at some point in their training session – he’s that proud of it), the destroyed guy replies, I’m going clubbing on Sunday morning actually, PPT says in a jokey way, oh ___ what are we going to do with you, so as to exhibit their difference in lifestyle, the destroyed guy replies, oh well, you know, as long as I’m happy, PPT replies, of course, that’s the most important thing, and I’m thinking, yes, happy; as happy as the rest of us who spend week after week in dark dingy clubs, pushing and shoving our way through crowds of sweaty half naked strangers, in a desperate pursuit of quick thrills and easy fixes, drugging it up to give it some meaning.

Saturday, 17 May 2008

Saturday 17/05/08

We all remember the post about all the things I keep on my desk at work, and the significance they have.  That was a good one, wasn't it?  Almost as good as the post I'll do of Superman's bedroom and the things he keeps there, and the significance they have.  But that's a different story.  A story that hasn't happened yet.

In the meantime, here's an update on my desk situation, because things have changed since last time.  Well, they've changed a little, because we don't like change much.

1) Vitamins 

Four tubs of vitamins indicate that you are sick, you are very sick but you don’t let that get you down, you choose to be strong so you pump yourself up with artificial supplements, bite the bullet and come in to work every day to give it 150%.  The fact that they are perfectly lined up and facing the same way may hint that you have actually nothing better to do than to spend your hours obsessively positioning / rearranging objects on your desk may contradict that hard-working image, so be careful around bonus time and spoil the arrangement a bit. 

2) Toothbrush & toothpaste 

Deliberately positioned next to the vitamins, it helps further confuse imperceptive colleagues making them think that you are a person who takes care of himself.  You may be rotting and slowly dying inside, but as long as you brush your teeth at work, people will think your body is a temple.  My favourite moment regarding this arrangement occurred when a colleague walked past, offered me some sweets, I looked at him with slight contempt and declined, he took mock offence and said “yes, why don’t you take some vitamins and go brush your teeth instead”.  This is a guy who thinks he’s funny. 

3) Strath Lomond bottled water 

Keep you bottle topped up and continue sipping from it through the day.  From a distance it looks like you’re taking swigs from a bottle of vodka (again, a colleague has commented on this).  If you’re brave enough (perhaps a week before you hand in your notice because you’re moving to Australia), replace Strath Lomond bottle with actual Absolut Vodka bottle.  People will have joked enough that your water bottle looks like a vodka one and will not comment again when it actually is. 

This might make those tedious final days go a bit quicker, but do remember to keep some paracetamol handy.  Staring at the wall for eight hours is hardly any fun; you don’t need a headache on top of that. 

4) Mobile phone 

This is where the mobile phone is kept through the day (missing from picture because I’m using it to take it).  You decide to keep it there after dropping it for the 15th time (in clubs under the influence, on the street under the influence, in the gym staring at Superman) until it lost the ability to ring or vibrate.  Now your only chance of seeing you have a call is visual, so you have to keep it in your sight range at all times.  Unfortunately you can’t replace it, because it’s provided by work and you’d rather not get into details of how you broke it.

5) Jelly babies 

That’s where you keep the jelly babies you consume at 1700 before a workout, for that much needed sugar rush.  Yes, you have resorted to sugary treats, because the Red Bull unfortunately keeps you up for days – is it the caffeine, is it the taurine, is it the haunting thoughts of your messed up life coming to a crushing end, who knows?  You’d rather not take any chances anyway. 

You will find that there are 36 jelly babies in the bag.  Split those equally over two days.  Spend some time counting them carefully on your desk as you want to be precise with your diet.  You can’t have 19 jelly babies one day and 17 the next.  What the fuck would that be all about? 

This is another example where a colleague walked past as I was doing this, stopped, asked me what I was doing, I told him I was counting jelly babies so I can split them up equally, he asked me whether I’d be unhappy with an estimated 60% / 40% split, I said yes terribly unhappy, he shook his head, walked off. 

They pick on me a lot, don’t they? 

6) Laptop and monitor 

This laptop recently replaced my old computer (as seen in the previous desk post).  I was also given the biggest computer monitor in the whole office – at 19 inches.  This might seem like a perk to the casual observer, but I know better.  A 19-inch monitor that can be seen by anyone walking around even at the other end of the office seems very suspicious to me.  

In fact, if you’re given anything above 21-inches I’d start considering looking for another job.  

And if some delivery guy turns up with a big plasma screen that would not look out of place in a sports bar showing the World Cup and puts it on your desk, please walk out.  You are no longer needed there. 

7) Cutlery 

Lined up cutlery.  That’s it really.