This is a picture with a hat and a tattoo, which reminds me to point out that this is a very painful spot for a tattoo and it still fucking hurts now, six days after it happened. I won't pretend that I don't like the pain though, at least it's a sensation, very welcome on a day when I thought I had run out of those:
Monday, 30 June 2008
This is a picture with a hat and a tattoo, which reminds me to point out that this is a very painful spot for a tattoo and it still fucking hurts now, six days after it happened. I won't pretend that I don't like the pain though, at least it's a sensation, very welcome on a day when I thought I had run out of those:
Saturday, 28 June 2008
Monday, 23 June 2008
On Friday at 1730 it’s the beginning of whole week off work, so I choose to celebrate this by going to the gym, where I do arms and abs and then I go home where I watch Big Brother just to see the new housemate they’re putting in, and the new housemate looks like this without his top on…
On Saturday night Scott and I meet up and we go to this club night called Revolver at Scala in Kings Cross, not because we really want to go clubbing, but because we want to hang out with Taylor, who’s the promoter, and the other people who are working there.
So we’re play with these people backstage for a bit and my favourite part of the night is that I am about 36 shades whiter than everyone else, not that this is a great achievement since everyone else is either Brazilian or Spanish or has a loyalty card to their local sunbed.
In any case, we are only planning to stay there for a couple of hours but suddenly it’s 0430 and that’s when we get on the bike and we go back home.
On Sunday evening it’s one of the three highlights of my week off, and this particular highlight involves an idea of mine to go to Primrose Hill around midnight and sit there and watch London, with some hot chocolate amongst other things.
(Primrose Hill is a hill in North London where you can get really good views of the rest of London)
So it’s midnight on Sunday night and we’re walking up the hill with blankets to wrap ourselves with and hot chocolate in flasks and an iPod and some speakers and to my surprise there are several other groups of people doing the exact same thing, even though I thought I would be the only person in the world to come up with this amazing idea.
But as Scott points out we live in a city with such a big population that, at any given time, there are people likely to be doing the same thing, whatever the thing is.
The thought that on any given Sunday at midnight there are people sitting on Primrose Hill watching London surrounded by darkness, drinking and chatting and having a good time whilst I’m in bed unable to sleep before another tedious week at work kinda depresses me a bit, but I refrain from throwing myself down the hill and putting an end to it all – after all I don’t have to work for another seven days.
And here’s a video of the view, and my heavy accent talking over it, even though neither of them or very clear.
Then suddenly it’s 0200 and then we go home.
Sunday, 22 June 2008
“Oh surprise, you are fishing for compliments again but this time on a different website...so 'Tom', do you feel better? Or are you still pretending to be secretly tortured by yourself?”
“You don't disappoint, do you? Last week (or whenever it was) that you found out you were single I had sympathy for you - a sad time for anyone. But true to form, you resort to type and the pics appeared as I anticipated! Did you do them just for me? You are too kind to give me the bile-fix I needed”
“Taking pics of yourselves in toilets in various states of undress, doesn't exactly scream "shy" or "modest". You have to admit that is pretty narcissistic.
But then I knew this all along, which is what interests me about your blog. Your attempts at being complex and self-deprecating only cover up 'ego' to a certain point. Your pics and modeling history scream to the contrary which is why I love to hate you: pretending you are someone sensitive, or deep, or have 'tortured soul' mentality when you don't really. Or at least this "online persona" doesn't - or are you and LP two separate entities now?
And that guy was right - people only read your blog because you look good. I would have lost interest weeks ago but it's only because you epitomise shallowness that I have to read every now and then: it resets my own moral compass”
“LP wrote: I don't really have a problem with people's comments, I'm just trying to make them see the other side of the argument.
Do you really mean that or are you just trying to get him to agree with you/massage your ego?”
“I am sure there will be pics of you in some club soon with only your pants on so I can get by bile-fix then”
“Feel a hint of sadness (through my otherwise raging repulsion) that you are moving to Australia. What will I do for my fix of rage when you're gone? I shall have withdrawals”
“Oh dear... I've suddenly gone completely off your blog. Excessive vanity and eating cherry pie, somehow I think your life has seriously gone downhill. Don't you think it's time to do something to save yourself from being another gay clone and attempt to make your life vaguely worthwhile and interesting?”
“Oh dear. So if you (LP) are slagging people off in what you believe to be semi-literary prose, it's ok? But when someone as nihilistic or sarcastic as you starts slagging you off, you have to comment on them? That is so gay. You're funny, you are. And yes, I've written one of the anonymous reactions, and I'll do it again.”
“You and your sycophantic idolers are disgusting!”
“You are a whole lot of crap. I mean if you are really so pissed up about the hole world why the fuck you expect me to believe that you have actual relationships with people to the level of letting them help you in "your hours of neeed". FUCK YOU. You don´t fucking know what is real pain. It is very likely that you wont post this comment but im not writting for this to be published im writing it because i think you ought to realize that you have to let go of the simple crap you write about and embrace life as it is that something Nietzsche says.
By hte way im from spain and my english is not perfect unlike yours for this reason.”
“I still think your nipples are way too big”
“Your body looks way out of proportion”
“I thought “arrogant idiot” and turned away from you”
“Thought I would message you to say that OK some people really fancy themselves, I suppose there's nothing you can do about that. It's a bit odd though when they are beyond fancying themselves and have got to the point where they are clearly obsessed by their own looks. There's nothing wrong with being happy with the way you look and showing it off a bit. But I really wanted to ask you whether you realise how other people see it? Do you realise how silly and in fact unattractive it makes you look. I assume that the root cause of yourself-obsession and narcissistic tendancies is very probably a manifestation of almost chronic insecurity. If you have insecurities I guess there's nothing much you can do about it - we all have insecurities about something and for all sorts of reasons. But for God sake have you any idea how ridiculous you make youself look? It's all very well having nice pics of yourself if you have a nice body, but presenting yourself as completely obsessed with your appearance and being so drowned in your own self-importance is something that most people will recognize very quickly. I'm sure you want to be liked and admired but what you are achieving is making yuorself look a real idiot.”
“Short, muscly, small legged cunt”
“Fuck off to New Zealand now please!”
“I'm going to keep reading. I like exploring the lives of people I feel morally superior to”
Sunday, 15 June 2008
On Friday after work I go to the gym, where I give my card to the Eastern European woman at reception, pick up a towel, go downstairs in the changing room, take my clothes off apart from my underwear, wrap the towel around my waist, take my underwear off, change into my swimming shorts, walk to the pool, swim 30 lengths (10 lengths front crawl with tumble turns, 10 length breast stroke, 10 lengths underwater without using my arms), have a shower, get dressed, go home.
On Friday night at 2230 I meet up with Mean at Old Street and we go to this bar, where Annie is playing a secret free gig. Annie is a singer from Norway, and her music is not extremely dissimilar to Robyn’s. On the way there I’m a bit worried that we won’t get in, because Annie was playing another free gig the night before and I’d heard that after a while people were turned away because it got quite busy.
But we go and we get in. The venue is very small, i.e. if you wanted to throw your underwear at Annie on stage – as I’m told people do at gigs – you could just hand it to her really and you wouldn’t have to stretch your arm full length either.
The crowd considers itself to be achingly hip and because we’re in London not to mention East London not to mention a tiny bar not to mention a secret gig that people found out about through word-of-mouth, nobody dances, nobody reacts to anything.
Regardless, Annie is doing her best and at some point she tells us: come on London, show me what you’ve got and Mean tells me: I’ll show you what London’s got – a fucking attitude. I like this and I make a note of it on my phone to write it here.
Then we leave and then I talk to Scott about the gig and he says what was it like and I say, it was good but the people were too East London, in fact some of them were very embarrassing and following every rule in the book. And Scott says, which book is that then, and I says i-D magazine. I like this and I make a note of it on my phone to write it here.
Anyway, this is why I may be going to Sydney for six months or so, but I will certainly be coming back to London to live after that. Because things like that happen in London: you hear about a secret gig in a tiny pub in London on Thursday and on Friday you're there and you're watching it. And no offence, but I don't know if Annie would be playing a tiny free secret gig in Sydney or Athens or wherever else. And I may often just like sitting in my living watching TV alone, but occasionally I like to go out and when I do, I want to have innumerable options of where to go.
On Saturday morning, I decide that I don’t want to wear suit trousers and dress shoes at work anymore and I want to wear smart jeans, loafers or deck shoes and soft cotton shirts from now on. During the summer at least. So I go and buy two pairs of jeans and three shirts from the Gap and then
Friday, 13 June 2008
Then Mummy calls me at work and she asks me not to go to Australia, because it could be dangerous and I might die or something (some famous gay actor was murdered in Athens last week, so it’s going to happen to all of us now) and why am I going there leaving my life behind now that I’m settled in London and I have a job and a relationship and friends. And I say, because I’m bored Mummy. And then she asks me to do her a favour and spy on my sister and find out if she’s sleeping with anyone, but not tell her that Mummy put me to it, and then the conversation comes to a natural end. How do you follow that one up, really?
Then I call my sister and we chat about upcoming gigs (Roisin Murphy and Madonna for her in Athens; Morrissey, Brett Anderson and Ash for me in London), summer holidays (no major plans on either side) and certainly not who she’s sleeping with. But I still don’t tell her that Mummy asked, because I don’t like to betray people’s trust, even if they’re borderline crazy.
Moving on to blog related matters, what do we think about the poll on the right? With 5 days to vote and 288 votes cast so far, the survey tells us that 59 straight guys, who I don’t know in real life, read this blog.
I’m not one to doubt people of course (…) but it seems pretty easy to just give an inaccurate response to an online poll.
It’s not long ago when a blog I – extremely – occasionally glance at (for obvious reasons I won’t get into), had a similar poll asking its readers about their gender and sexuality. Well I went and voted that I’m a homosexual female (also known as a lesbonym). Then I happened to log on from a different computer (which allowed me to vote again) and I voted as a lesbonym again. That’s two lesbonym votes from me.
I don’t know why, I just thought it would be “fun” to confuse the results.
Then when the poll finished, the blog writer posted comments on the results, where he was pleasantly surprised that even a small number of gay females read his blog (I think maybe there were a total of 6-7 votes from other liars like me).
Now of course I could never imagine that London Preppy readers would do the same thing, so I believe everyone and I’d be extremely interested to interact with these 59 straight guys (and counting). In other words, can I be your friend? Particularly if you live in London or Sydney.
Not because I don’t want to be friends with gay people, but a) because over the last 2-3 years I have made dozens of new gay friends, but no new straight friends really. And I wonder whether if I hadn’t come out so late (at 25) I would have any straight friends at all now (all my straight friends I’ve known before I came out).
So if you're straight and you want to be my new straight friend...
I promise to:
- Not hit on you, even if you’re hot
- Let you know if your t-shirt is completely the wrong fit
- Go out with you and go up to girls and chat to them for you
You should promise to:
- Go to boring concerts like James / The Charlatans / etc with me
- Watch sport with me, well not all sport, just international tournaments like Euro 2008 or something
- Explain why you spray deodorant over your clothes
Email me at London.email@example.com or comment, innit.
As I keep saying to people I’m not as weird as I come across on here. I just write like that (if I keep saying this enough, maybe someone will believe it).
PS. I will also require gay friends when I move to Sydney but we'll get on that another time.
Thursday, 12 June 2008
On Wednesday for some reason I’m requested to be at work – as if I haven’t got anything better to do – and then at lunchtime I’m released for a while, on the condition that I’ll be back at my desk punching that keyboard in exactly one hour. And during this hour I walk around pretending that I’m a free spirit and in control of my own destiny, even though I painfully know by now that I’m a puppet, maybe a pawn even, in a game of chess that nobody knows how to play.
And what I choose to do with myself as I improvise my so-called life during this hour, is go in Borders and read the latest copy of the NME. The NME tells me that the band Ash are playing their album 1977 in an one-off concert at the Astoria in September, so when I go back in the office I email Enid and we book tickets to go. Surrounded by other former indie fans now in their late 20s / early 30s, we’ll be there and we’ll try to relive our youth, trying to ignore the knowledge of the broken dreams and shattered expectations that we’ve now grown so close to. Back in 1996, it was never meant to end this way.
Later that afternoon, A Girl sends me the lyrics to ___ by Elton John, a song that I’m not familiar with (even though I find out is really famous), but reminds me of a person that I obsess with at the moment and would like to drug, tie up, rape, kill myself in front of, and haunt for the rest of his life. As I haven’t heard this song before, but the lyrics tell me that I should, I spend a big part of the afternoon trying to imagine what the music might sound like. As I fail, I decide to read it as prose, which quite frankly works much better for me.
After the gym, I download this song, and by Thursday morning it has become my ninth most played song of 2008.
On Wednesday evening I set out my outfit for next day’s work (grey suit trousers from Zara, black leather shoes from unknown brand, white fitted shirt from the Gap, skinny black tie from Topman) and watch the Apprentice. The guy who I identified as the best looking candidate 12 weeks ago - here and here - when the series started (and therefore a major candidate for being treated favourably by the rest of the human race – the entire world to be honest), wins. I take that as a personal insult, a confirmation that this planet has not punished me enough yet, and I go to bed.
On Thursday lunchtime, I head for the tattoo place with A Girl to make an appointment. On the way there I’m feeling quite stressed, I’m embarrassed of turning up again and asking for more. Like a junkie going back for another methadone shot, fearful that they will turn me away (they know an addict when they come across one – they’ve seen this happen before: “and how many tattoos have you had in the last six months?”, “I’m afraid I can’t help you anymore. You’re going to have to leave”, etc) I go in.
I discuss what I want with the guy, he quotes me £130, A Girl comments that it’s not that much, the guy says “well, he’s a regular”, I can hear Mummy’s heart break into even smaller pieces at the thought of her only son being referred to as “a regular” at his local tattoo place (she’s unaware of this of course, but they know, they always do), I make an appointment, I leave.
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
On Monday I spend about 87% of my waking hours researching lyrics for my complementary tattoo with ___, sending the lyrics to ___ and getting shot down. I have now gone through every song released by Suede, Morrissey, The Smiths and Gene and we have not agreed on anything. And I refuse to have lyrics by any other band tattooed on me.
In any case after having submitted about 60 couplets to ___ I now give up and I’m waiting for him to come back to me with some suggestions. His one suggestion so far has been for me to have 1,2,3,4,5 tattooed on me, and for him to have 6,7,8,9,10. A sequence of numbers that complement each other. Obviously I shoot that down. So like Ross and Rachel choosing the name of their baby on Friends, each of us will take turns to come up with some ridiculous suggestion and the other one will veto it. This is going to end up great.
But I don’t mind really, I’m sure we’ll have something done eventually, and it will be really horrible and regrettable, but that’s fine. I want to have a stupid tattoo and I want to regret it and I want to be in some local bar in a suburban town when I’m 63, sipping a double scotch (having asked the barman to leave the bottle) wearing an ancient filthy leather waistcoat with my gut hanging out from the top of dirty, torn jeans with blood and ink stains on the thighs, grey long hair held in a thin ponytail, as two cocky provincial young bucks take a break from shooting pool, walk up to me and start taking the piss out of the tattoo on the top of my hip, and its faux-romantic “two hearts under a skyscraper” reference, trying to get a reaction out of me only so they can punch me, kicking an old alcoholic geezer while he’s down, really. But I won’t react, I can’t react, I’m taking in all the taunts but not interested in retorting, my eyes glaze blankly over them, my eyes are dead but seeing more than theirs, my eyes dead possibly because they have.
And on Tuesday I go to work and then to the gym.
And after the gym I go home and watch Greece.
And on Wednesday morning I’ve receive an email from Matty at work (once again: Matty has moved to Sydney now) and Matty says:
“As you might imagine there isn’t much / any coverage of the Euro 2008 champs so I may have to rely on you to fill me in on the inside gossip. Maybe London Preppy you could return to your punditry ways for my benefit”
And I says to Matty:
“Yes, the Euro 2008. I can only provide reviews for the Greece games I’m afraid. There will only be three of them so we better enjoy them.
Greece vs Sweden
This was a boring game where nothing happened for the first 67 minutes. Regardless, during that time I didn’t even move to go to the toilet in case I would miss something (mostly passes between the Greek defenders in the midfield, really). Then Sweden scored. Then I turned down the sound and went on the internet because I was upset. Five minutes later Sweden scored again. That’s when I turned it over to a Greek film from 1965, which at least I knew the end of and it wouldn’t disappoint me.
And that’s it. Greece vs Russia review on Monday”
Finally, there’s a new poll on the right. I wanted to check whether any straight guys, who I’m not friends with / know in real life actually read this. So the possible answers are that you are: a) a straight guy who I don’t know, b) a straight guy who I know, c) everyone else. I know 98% will fall under (c), but even if there are one or two straight guys that I don't know reading, erm, I’d like to know. Thanks.
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
And as we know I spent a month+ in a hospital somewhere in a nice area of London (can’t complain much) in 2005/2006 and because a month+ is quite a long time, I had to find ways to entertain myself. You might have thought I’d have spent a lot of time reading, but I couldn’t hold up a book or turn pages etc, mainly due to being paralysed, and as many helpful visitors as I had, nobody really volunteered to sit there, hold up books and turn the pages for me. People did help with many other more enjoyable activities though, and some of these activities were:
(Again most of these things other people did for me, as I couldn’t myself)
a) I decided to listen to all the songs on my iPod using shuffle, one by one, not skipping a single song. So I did. That must have been around 3,000 songs at that time
b) I decided to keep track of the people who visited me and at the end of the month I made a chart of the most frequent visitors. At joint first place were Scott and D (my housemate back then), both of which visited me every day apart from one
c) I decided that I needed to look less like I’m dying, so I made my sister put on concealer under my eyes (YSL Touche Eclat shade 1) every morning after I woke up. And put wax in my hair
d) Later in the month, I decided to be a new person and I shaved all my hair (on my head) off, at a no.1 all over. This resulted in me looking more like I’m dying, but it was too late by then
e) I decided to make a list of my Favourite 100 Songs of All Time. My method for this was that I identified my top 10 bands/singers of all time and chose 5 songs from each of them. That gave me 50. Then for the remaining 50 I just chose other songs from artists who didn’t necessarily like that much, I just liked some, maybe even only one of their songs
f) I decided that I wanted my leg hairs trimmed at a no.2 using clippers
g) I decided that I wanted my facial hair bleached with peroxide (as I’ve mentioned before hairs on my upper lip are blonde but my beard isn’t), so I had Scott (and others) do that for me over the whole month
h) Through the first 10 days or so I didn’t eat anything, because I couldn’t chew or swallow (I had a drip instead) and then when I started eating I got takeaway from Carluccio’s for every meal
i) During the last week when I could use a wheelchair (having regained movement of my arms) I asked for permission to leave the hospital and go on a sunbed place nearby. We incorporated that in one of my physiotherapy sessions, where the physios took me to the place, helped me onto the sunbed and then picked me up when I was done
j) Because I didn’t like wearing the hospital clothes, I insisted on wearing clothes that amused me instead. This put a little extra pressure on the people who dressed me of course (it’s definitely easier to put on a backless hospital gown on somebody who’s completely paralysed than a fitted t-shirt, but I’m sure it was worth it in the end). But the end of the month I was so bored that I was wearing ridiculous things like rugby padding, football shin-pads, rugby socks, all sorts of things
k) When I was in the wheelchair, friends would come round and we’d go out in the corridor/balcony type area (it was a nice hospital I tell you) and they would push me (or was it throw me?) as far as they could. Whoever pushed me (threw me?) the furthest, won
l) I bought a portable DVD player. I watched endless amounts of Simpsons episodes on my DVD player, I watched every episode of Sex & The City, I watched DVDs with the music videos directed by Michel Gondry and Chris Cunningham and all the music videos of Bjork, but still in a hospital for a month with nothing else to do, I didn’t have enough attention span to watch a single film
m) And apart from that, I just lay in bed and looked at the ceiling quite a lot
So in conclusion, this is the life I’d like to live please, only without the paralysis and/or pain.
PS. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, the Greece vs Sweden game is about to start.
Monday, 9 June 2008
And this Sunday is very warm and sunny, so I put on some factor 50 sunscreen and try to stay in the shade on my way to Tesco for the weekly shopping, then I do my weekly shopping and then I follow the shade back home again.
After lunch I put on: short navy shorts from Topman, blue t-shirt with the London area where I live printed at the front, ___ loafers, some more factor 50 sunscreen and ___ sunglasses, and I meet up with Nathan at Selfridges, where I’m supposed to watch him shop, but not buy anything myself.
And my Sunday afternoon clothes look like this.
And yes, I do have a strong will and steel determination that has led me to forget what a nice pint of bitter or my favourite BBQ-flavoured crisps taste like, but I’m human after all and when this red Polo Sport jacket winks at me, I forget everything, I relapse and I can only think of the good times we’ll have together.
Then Nathan comes back and finds me feeling up this jacket, shameful but content and I know I am a recovering alcoholic whose group leader walks in to find him sipping from a bottle of Calvin Klein CK1 that he keeps in his pocket, but at this point I don’t care anymore.
So I try on this jacket and I says to Nathan, please tell me it looks bad on me and Nathan says, well, it looks like a cross between a racing jacket and a sailing one, and that’s that, Nathan has used the forbidden word, he mentions sailing and this jacket is coming home with me.
Apart from this, Sunday appears to be interaction-with-strangers day, an interaction that can be summed up in the following three incidents:
1) In Selfridges, we are shopping, and this salesperson, who I’ll go out on a limp (see what I did there) and say that is one of the gays, comes up to me and points at my shorts and says: “I realise it’s warm out there today, but I didn’t realise it was that warm” and then I says oh yes it is, and then he says, what does your tattoo say and I says, it’s my name and he says, oh it must be weird tattoo day today, some other guy earlier….And that’s as far I listen I’m afraid
2) On the tube, I’m going home and there are two drunk people in the same carriage as me, and drunk people on the tube are always good value, so I’m stood there pretending to listen to my iPod but it’s off, I’m wearing the headphones for show and I’m actually listening to them chatting to / annoying everyone around them. Then inevitably my turn comes and they both start staring at my leg tattoo and one of them shouts at me: what does that say. And I pretend not to hear him because “I’m listening to music” (still in character) and then he waves at me and I pull the headphones out and say, what, and he repeats himself and I say, “it’s my name”. And one of them says “in case you forget it?” and I says “I haven’t heard that one before” and the other one says “so what’s your name” and I says “that”, and he says “I can only see half of it, it goes around” and I says “oh well” and put my headphones back on
3) On the walk back home from the tube, three drunk people are coming the opposite way (everyone is drunk today – when the sun is out British people apply alcohol liberally in the same way I apply factor 50 sunblock) and one of them shouts what my t-shirt says back at me, and the other two laugh like that was a sign of comic genius and then another one of them shouts the same thing and then it’s over, even though I wouldn’t object to a little fight
Sunday, 8 June 2008
On Friday after work I go to the gym and then maybe I should be going to some house party, but I’ve been out on Wednesday night (Hercules & Love Affair) and Thursday night (Simon’s house) and this is getting way too much, I need to be on my own for a while so I just go home.
Then at 2300 I get a little bored so decide to quickly get dressed, take the iPod and get on the tube, go around on my own for a bit listening to music and watching the people going home from their nights out.
And during this tube journey I listen to Cemetry Gates by The Smiths, followed by A Cause De Garcons by Yelle quite a few times, and then the tube is nearly closed so I head back home.
On Saturday I meet up with Scott and we go to Topman, where I buy a pair of skinny jeans for £25 (which I later cut into knee-length skinny shorts) and then we go to a ridiculously cheap and tacky sports shop, where I buy two pairs of Adidas shorts for the gym for £2.50 each (which means that I never have to wear my two pairs of Abercrombie shorts to the gym, which I have been wearing for the last six years).
And hopefully with the basic, straight-boy Adidas gym shorts and my frumpy white Marks & Spencer’s underwear, when I go to the gym in Sydney, gay people who are training there will be thinking: is he gay / no he can’t be gay / look at those shorts and/or underwear / etc.
On Saturday evening I meet up with Mean and we’re heading out to Hoxton Square, which is in East London and used to be leftfield and “happening” about nine years ago.
But because I’m unaware of this degradation of Hoxton Square bars I try to outdo those trendy East London types, by wearing something suitably ridiculous, which comprises the skinny jeans I prepared earlier / white plimsolls / green t-shirt with a picture of a British stamp on it, only with Madonna’s face instead of the Queen’s.
Which reminds me of a conversation I had with some gay friends not too long ago, about the difference between gay bars and straight bars. If you’re a guy and you go to a gay bar people will check you out and stare out you no matter what. If you’re a guy and you go to a straight bar, you’re invisible, because in straight bars girls are the story, girls are the stars. Which is something I’m OK with at the moment.
Then I catch the tube home and Mean catches a cab home and soon Mean starts texting me about his super chatty cab driver and how he picked up David Schwimmer apparently and I text back “any good Marcel stories” and Mean texts back “great head apparently” and then I get home.
Friday, 6 June 2008
- When I have to make a phonecall to anyone in English (i.e. every day) I don’t have any confidence at all because it’s my second language, so I end up mumbling and making mistakes
- When I have to make a phonecall to anyone in Greek (i.e. once a year) I have great confidence because I think I can do this, I’m Greek you know, but the reality is that I’ve lost it and I end up mumbling and making mistakes
After work I go to the gym and after the gym I meet up with Scott and we go to Urban Outfitters where he buys a pair of white plimsolls too and then we go to his friend Simon’s house. At his friend Simon’s house: I bring my own dinner (chicken and broccoli) / people watch TV / I go to the bathroom and change the toilet roll because it’s hanging the wrong way around / people eat pizza / I leave at 2130 because I need to go home and spend some time on my own.
On Friday I discuss with ___ our complementary Suede tattoos, and I know that I said we had decided on…
and we can feel a little closer
as we tumble through the sky
…but this plan is now off, because we both want the second line of this (tumble + sky) and nobody wants the first one (feel + closer). Which I suppose is fair enough because the first line sucks.
So this Friday I come up with another shortlist of Suede lyrics that we could have, and even though at the moment I’m still waiting to hear ___’s views on these, I thought I’d share them on here as well. And my new shortlist of lyrics to have tattooed on our bodies as a gesture of eternal companionship / being a little bit odd / doing more things we’ll regret when we’re older / I don’t know what, are as follows:
(Again these are all split in two lines, for each of us to have one. I’ve put in bold the line I’d rather have if we go for that choice – where I have a preference)
steal me a savage, subservient son, get him
shacked-up, bloodied-up and sucking on a gun
but he and I, we soon discovered
we'd take the pills to find each other
and like all the boys in all the cities
I take the poison, take the pity
we can be together in the nuclear sky
and we will dance in the poison rain
on you my tattoo will be bleeding
and the name will stain
and I'm losing myself
losing myself to you
and so we drown, sir we
drown, stop taking me over
we got a love from nowhere towns
we got a love like electric sounds
you wake up with a gun in your mouth
let the nuclear wind blow away my sins
when you're there in his arms and there
in his legs, well I'll be in his head
so in your broken home
he broke all of your bones
And that’s all for now.