Wednesday, 30 July 2008

Wednesday 30/07/08

On Wednesday I go to the gym with Scott, although not the usual gym with Superman and all the nice personal trainers, and we do chest and take pictures of each exercise so I can post them on here, and these exercises are…

Exercise One: Cable cross-over from the top.

Exercise Two: Cable cross-over from the bottom.

Exercise Three: Chest press with dumbbells.  I would advise against performing this exercise wearing loose shorts AND loose boxers, or at least perform it with your legs facing the wall.


Exercise Four: Incline press machine.  By this point my mobile phone had decided to die and we’re having to use Scott’s phone to take the rest of the pictures and I am quite annoyed and want to go.


Exercise Five: Pec-deck.  That’s when I really have had enough and I am getting a bit grouchy, so this is the last exercise.


Then we leave the gym, and for this exit I am wearing grey knee-length ___ shorts, navy University of Reykjavik t-shirt, yellow espadrilles, white shutter shades, big hair, even though not as big as I want it to be.


And here’s another one for free.


Then we go to the shops and some charity person stops me on the street and says: can I ask you something about your sunglasses, and I always welcome ridicule so I say, sure go on.  And she says, can you actually see when you’re walking around.  And I say, no, not really, and she says, oh you should be careful then, and I say thanks.  Then we go to Office and buy some more espadrilles (navy, white) and then as we leave the shop the charity person stops me again and says: since I’m seeing you again do you want to stop and have a proper chat (i.e. can I have some money) and I say, no, and she says, why, and I say, because I’m not charitable.  And maybe she says something else at that point, but I’m not even sure anymore. 

Then we drive back to where I live and go to some tourist shop and buy a Superman t-shirt each (which I’m going to cut down the shoulder exactly like Superman from the gym has and maybe wear them in Brighton at the weekend) and… 

…then we go to this ice cream place with a sign outside telling us that they sell the best ice cream in London, which I’m willing to believe, I really am, and we sit there and I have a scoop of chocolate and a scoop of toasted almond, and I know that at least four people will comment to actually tell me where the best ice cream in London is sold, but this is not bad, not bad at all.

Tuesday, 29 July 2008

Tuesday 29/07/08

This is another in the series of non-advice advice.  Today: writing a blog.

Writing a blog is a very easy thing to do.  You just have to start typing words on your keyboard and you don’t necessarily need to have a plan on where the sentence is going to end or what you want to say really.  Sentences tend to wrap themselves up at some point anyway, so don’t think the pressure is on you.  

Every once in a while, when you’ve been writing for ages and it doesn’t look like it’s gonna go anywhere, you can stop typing mid-sentence, leaving your paragraph unfinished.  This will give an intense sense of urgency, a hectic fin de siècle impression (even at the beginning of a century) and the illusion that you lead a life so busy you can’t even finish your own thoughts.  Your readers will be impressed.  Quite often though, it's 

There are literally thousands of blogs out there, and some of them even have readers.  This is the type of blog you should aim to write.  Some people write a blog and they pretend that they don’t care how many people read it / that they only write for themselves and if anyone else is reading it it’s a bonus / that it’s just an online diary really and not suitable for public consumption.  That’s what Brett Anderson was saying about his music before he released his solo album in 2007, and now he doesn’t have a record contract. 

Most people start writing a blog, they post every day, then they post every two or three days, then once a fortnight, and then they haven’t posted for so long that they don’t even know what their password is anymore.  Then something incredible happens in their lives (e.g. there’s a funny announcement by the train driver on their way to work, their Mum sends them some pictures of when they were little riding the family dog in the back garden flashing a toothless grin at the camera) and they can’t log in to tell us.  I suppose it bodes well that we’ve completely lost interest by that point anyway. 

For bloggers who continue writing past the 15th post, it is inevitable that they will repeat their style and/or stories sooner or later.  Some of them actually work in completely cyclical terms and you will read the same bloody stories again and again every five posts or so.  In fact, there are one or two blogs linked here to the right that I feel I could sit down and fucking write myself with 98% accuracy instead of logging on to read them. 

Of course, in order to avoid criticism for being “repetitive”, “unimaginative” and “talentless”, you can pretend that the tired old format you use is part of your writing style.  So, for example: 

a) London Preppy is written in simple, childish prose with a vocabulary of 80 words maximum, but I maintain that my Spartan narrative is intentionally so, the austere, minimalist and stark writing is deliberate.  Who cares if I don’t produce eloquent, Corinthian prose – it’s because I don’t want to, not because I can’t.  Ahem. 

b) In London Preppy nothing ever happens apart from that I go to the gym, moan about work a bit, occasionally throw in some Guillain Barre Syndrome reference, that sort of thing.  This is not because I completely lack inspiration and lead a boring life focused around two or three obsessions of course, but because I am making a statement about the pointlessness of existence, human despair in urban environments, the absence of morality, that kind of shit. 

Including some pictures will certainly work in favour of your blog.  There is too much nudity around the internet for people to stay there reading your crap without some visual assistance every now and then.  These pictures can be of yourself – don’t worry, no matter how shit you look there are always people out there who will leave a comment and tell you that you look amazing, you’re fit as fuck and they want to shag you.  Take these comments as seriously as your self-awareness allows you to (you know the truth really, don’t you?) 

If your blog is successful, you will be able to identify some aspects that make it stand out and be different to any other blog out there: well done, you have created your own little world.  Be careful not to change these elements, because you will alienate your audience and create brand confusion.  Elements of the London Preppy blog that should never, will never be altered are, in no particular order: 

-          A pretence that nothing really matters

-          Music references from 1994

-          Half-naked pictures of the writer and his friends

-          Dressed pictures of the writer without his friends

-          Literary references from a limited spectrum of books

-          An unjustified belief that pale looks good

-          A tedious formulaic account of the day’s events 

Finally, getting exposure to your blog is always good.  Links on other blogs and facebook fanpages definitely help, but what I really want, is a London Preppy picture – yes, shirtless I’m not kidding myself, but with trademark red block across the eyes – on the cover of a magazine (I know my market: Attitude / Gay Times / AXM / QX / Boyz / DNA are all good for this) as part of a feature on blogs/bloggers and with an article I’ve written inside.  I can dream.  Or maybe I should go off now and email all these people with this amazing idea. 

Oh and here’s the daily reminder for Best Reader Body competition, send your pics to london.preppy@gmail.com, details here, closing date Friday 8th August.

Monday, 28 July 2008

Monday 28/07/08

Here’s the daily reminder for Best Reader Body competition, send your pics to london.preppy@gmail.com, closing date Friday 8th August. 

I will keep beating this dead horse, until more than two people enter or someone explains the lack of interest.  Last time I had half as many readers and I got about 20 entries.  

Anyway. 

On Sunday evening Dad calls and he says, how was your weekend and I say, oh it was great Dad I only had to go in the office and work on Sunday you know.  And Dad is not amused by that, in fact he’s probably more pissed off than I am, so I suppose at least one good thing about that guy is that he’s on my side in terms of work commitment.  Or being taken advantage of anyway. 

Then he passes me on to Mum and I ask Mum, how was your weekend and she says, oh it was So-And-So’s son’s wedding, but I didn’t go (So-And-So being an old friend of hers).  And I say, you didn’t go because you find it painful to see other people’s children getting married because of me?  And she says, yes, how did you know.  And that’s when I don’t reply that I don’t know much, but I know when I’m given another slap in the face, even as discreetly as that. 

On Monday morning I decide to go to work (trying out something new I guess), so I find myself on the tube listening to my iPod, and when That’s When I Reach For My Revolver by Moby, which I’ve been playing repeatedly over the weekend, turns into Suicide Is Painless by the Manic Street Preachers on shuffle (I am not making this up), I pretend this did not just happen, it is not just another sign driving me to fling myself under the eastbound Central Line train.

Work is good as ever / walking around at lunchtime is even better because it’s humid and uncomfortable / I finish nice and early today / I’m out the door at 1820.

In the gym I meet up with Scott, he does arms and I do legm the gym is insanely busy and hot and I even break into a sweat.  I don’t like breaking into a sweat when I work out, it looks like I’ve made an effort or that I’ve pushed myself hard, neither of which are admirable qualities or anything I want to associate myself with.

Then I go to get changed and when Scott comes down as well he tells me that Pale Personal Trainer just gave him a quick training session, showing him how to do some tricep exercise.  And Scott even touched PPT’s arm.  This is as exciting as my week is going to get really, so I latch on to it and ask the following questions:

-       Are his eye nice / can you get lost in them

-       Doesn’t he sound stupid with his Northern accent

-       Why did you grab his arm you stupid queen / oh my God you’re so gay, please step away from me

-       What did it feel like please

-       Is it bigger than mine (I know the answer to this but I thought I’d ask anyway, I need another hit, I haven't had enough today) 

And Scott’s answers, in order, are:

-       Yes, I suppose / no

-       No, I like Northern accents

-       I didn’t just grab it, he was just showing me something and I had to touch it

-       Nice (insert stupid grin)

-       Yes, much and it’s also harder, not squeeshy like your stupid arms (this is true, all my muscles are quite soft – just for show really)

Then I go home.

Meanwhile, I asked the other day if anyone would like to give me any money for my Sydney ticket (if you don’t ask, you don’t get) and one reader suggested that I offer something back.  Which I suppose is fair enough even though I offer and offer and offer by writing thid blog relentlessly day after day, until no one will be left to read.

Anyway, the ideas that I’ve had so far of what to give back are:

a)    I could give some worn / used Speedos again like I used to sell on ebay (for the more lunatic blog-reading fringe)

b)    I could collect and print out some of my favourite posts from this blog (say 50 pages), bind them together, throw some pictures in the mix and some handwritten messages and send that (for others) 

Would anyone be interested in any of these things?

Sunday, 27 July 2008

Sunday 27/07/08

Here’s the daily reminder for Best Reader Body competition, send your pics to london. preppy@gmail.com, rules here, closing date Friday 8th August. 

On Friday there is some work, although mostly yawning (after the night which took sleeplessness to a ridiculous new level) and after work there is some gym, although with very little motivation. 

Then I go home where I pretend to watch TV and do such things as “eat” and “have a shower”, even though I’m mostly focusing on the fact that I might have to go back to work on Sunday. 

At 2014, I receive a text from A Girl, who’s still in the office, and A Girl says: “I’m about to cry. I’m leaving soon but my computer just crashed. Sunday looks very plausible.  I’ll let you know” 

Quite instantly, at 2015 (I really will hang on to anything, whatever I’m thrown really), I reply: “Please do.  We’ll make a day out of it.  I did not just type this, but I have nothing better to do” 

Then A Girl says (2022): “What on earth will we wear?  I’m thinking casual weekend wear” 

Then I say (2023): “I’m not sure yet.  But I’m starting to panic” 

Then A Girl says (2027): “We only have about 40 hours to work this out.  Clearly not enough time.  Good luck.  I’m off to have my neat whiskey now.  Double please” 

I spend Saturday mostly on my own, so I: makes some calls about Sydney flights / go to Tesco / go to the gym where nobody I’m attracted to is even there to cheer me up / arrange to meet Mean in the evening. 

Then Saturday evening comes, like every Saturday evening does, and to go out I’m wearing: loose fitting knee length denim shorts from H&M, dark green wife-beater from H&M, white socks, white basketball Nike Air Force trainers. 

I hate wearing wife-beaters outside a sporting context these days, even though there was a time when I would never go out without putting on one (when I first came out and I thought that having big arms was a major achievement that everyone should know about), but this Saturday is very, very warm and I kinda need to.  Regardless, I still feel a bit of a twat. 

So what we do this evening with Mean is: Mean buys me an ice cream, we walk around a bit, we go to some pub and sit outside, Mean has a beer, I have some water, we walk around a bit more, I go home. 

On Sunday morning, I start texting A Girl nice and early… 

I say (0952): “Yesterday was an OK day, but there was something missing.  I have now come to the bitter realisation that I need at least a daily fix of office death – no wait, life.  If you do go in today, let me know” 

A Girl says (1011): “Normally I would feel the same as you of course, but I only got 3 hours of sleep and I would prefer to sleep all day.  Nevertheless, I will be getting there around noon.  Company much appreciated” 

Then I get dressed (denim shorts – again, I have no imagination this Sunday morning – blue polo shirt, white espadrilles) and catch the tube in. 

I spent the next few hours a) actually working, b) occasionally looking at the packed swimming pool outside the window, c) warning A Girl that if I accidentally fall out of the window and crash head first into the sunbathing deck several floors down, she should tell everyone it was NOT an accident, I’d planned it for months, and they are to blame. 

Then I go to the gym. 

At 1650, A Girl texts: “I’ll be here for another couple of hours, then I may shoot myself.  Or I guess whichever comes first” 

I reply (1700): “I will take it as another cruel joke by the script writers that a cover version of That’s When I Reach For My Revolver by Moby came in my iPod shuffle as I was reading this” 

A Girl replies (1708): “I suppose the fact that as I was reading your last message Morrissex (typo, but I’m leaving it) Dear God Please Help Me was playing on my iPod can’t be part of the script at all” 

By this time I’m home where I spend 97 minutes trying to decide whether I should be Channing Tatum or not.  Answer: Yes.  Yes I should.

Thursday, 24 July 2008

Thursday 24/07/08

Here’s the daily reminder for Best Reader Body competition, send your pics to london.preppy@gmail.com, rules here, closing date Friday 8th August. I’ve actually decided that everyone who enters will be put to the public vote* – who am I to judge after all? It’s not like I have to sleep with the winner or anything. Oh wait. (*Unless there’s a sudden surge of hundreds of entries in which case I’ll have to narrow it down for practical reasons. But that’s not going to happen, is it).

Anyway.

On Wednesday morning I wake up at 0852 having slept through my alarm which is set for 0820 (still under the influence of a 0200 Valium) and manage to make it into the office for 0929.

For the rest of the day I pretend to be at work, even though I suspect that I’m actually not. On some level (on many levels, really) I know that this whole thing is a set-up. Surely this broad comedy, the horrific and tragic images, the characters caught in hopeless situations forced to do repetitive and meaningless actions, the dialogues that are full of clichés and nonsense, the plots that are cyclical, all of these things cannot exist in real life outside the margins of the theatre of the absurd.

I play my role semi-convincingly until 1745 and then I go to the gym.

In the gym I continue to rehearse for this part that I want to audition for: a normal person living in London in 2008. I’m not the best judge for my own work, but I think it’s going well. Some of the other gym goers are certainly convinced.

After the gym I take the tube home, going in the same carriage, through the same door as always and standing there behind me is a group of German kids – tourists – who I’m convinced will get off at the same stop as me (they do). There are six, maybe seven of them, aged around 15-16, some boys and some girls, so I turn off Avenue D – Do I Look Like A Slut? that’s been playing on my iPod on repeat and try to listen in. My German isn’t what it used to be so I just pick up random words, but the main reason why I want to hear them is one of the boys. That boy is very, very good looking.

Even as a teenager (and let’s face it, teenagers are awkward looking, with adult noses on still childlike faces, facial hair they’re embarrassed to shave, blank looks not from pain but from inexperience, etc), he is stunning. And for the next four stops I’m trying to avoid making eye contact with him (I can’t help myself) and consider the following:

- Has the influence of his extraordinary good looks started affecting his life? Or does this happen later?
- Is he aware of it?
- Is he more popular amongst his friends because of it, or the opposite?
- Does he have a girlfriend?

Then we get to my stop, the door delays to open for a few seconds, I’m standing there right in front of it, one of the German kids uses his best English to ask me “excuse me, can you press the button to open the door for us” (if you’re not from London please note that the tube doors open automatically and no matter how much you press the buttons nothing will happen), I ignore him, the door opens, we all get out.

At home the issue of Attitude with my article in it has arrived. I open it and read it, I cringe at the pictures, I’m very pleased with the article itself – nothing has been changed.

And I wrote this in the comments yesterday, but I have to say again: I’m happy with it, because I’ve written it in the usual London Preppy style and Attitude were cool with that and just put it in as it was.

I hadn’t mentioned this before, but the theme of the article is: How available is casual sex to gay men? I.e. How easy is it to go out, find somebody you don’t know and sleep with them. And I had to go out to bars and test that, and write about it. Yes OK, hardly the most highbrow topic, but it’s a lifestyle magazine, that’s what people read in lifestyle magazines I guess.

Of course I’m not going to copy the article on here, but I’ll share one line, the line that they’ve picked to single out in big, bold font in the middle of the article (I’m sure there’s a word that describes that in magazines, but I don’t know it), and this line is:

“"After half an hour of looking at my feet, I remember that I'm out to meet people"

Anyway, this is the cover of the magazine (August ’08 issue)…




…so what we have to do now is go out and buy it, and write in to them and tell them how amazing that piece of writing is on page 59, where is the Pulitzer prize please, and can we have more of that writer. Thanks.

Finally, there’s a new poll on the right now and this is a poll that asks you to choose between the (mainly straight) people I have obsessed over in the last few months. And the shortlist is:

Jack the Personal Trainer (
sample story here)
Superman (sample story here)
Pale Personal Trainer (sample story here)
Hairy Guy (
sample story here)
Ginger Personal Trainer (
sample story here)

And finally finally, how should I take it that Bel Ami porn star Lukas Ridgeton (or the people who manage his facebook page anyway) has become a “fan” on the facebook London Preppy fanpage? Because I’ll sleep with him if I have to.

Wednesday, 23 July 2008

Wednesday 23/07/08

This is the daily reminder to enter the BRB ’08 competition (send pics to london.preppy@gmail.com). Amazingly we have a couple of entries now, and they're very good too. So maybe you should also enter.

Another thing that I google on Monday apart from my (online) name, is the phrase “Bret Easton Ellis tattoo”, because I want to find out if anyone else on this planet has one. So I come across this guy’s blog, and this guy has a list of things he did in 2007 or something, and one of these things is: Got a Bret Easton Ellis tattoo.

So my next step is to email the guy and this is a conversation that unfolds like this.

Me: Hi mate, this is quite random, but I came across your blog and saw you had written that you have a Bret Easton Ellis tattoo. Is this true? I was just wondering, because I have one myself. Cheers, LP.

Him: Yeah, I've got an Ellis tattoo it's on my shin. I'm eventually going to add Gabriel Garcia-Marquez and Charles Bukowski. Where is yours? Where are you from and how did you find my blog? Peace, ___

Me: Mine's on my bicep. I've attached a picture. I've got another one that references Less Than Zero on my back. I'm from London, and you? I just typed "Bret Easton Ellis tattoo” into google and landed on your page. Was just curious if anyone else had one. It's cool that you do anyway.

That’s what we have so far.

On Tuesday I go to the gym with Scott, where we do something or other (something being back and other being abs), and Superman is there, being his usual Superman self, and I says to Scott. Oh my God, look how pale he is. I wish I were that pale. And Scott says, but you’re actually paler. And I says, why? And Scott says, because he’s human.

And I actually think that Scott only says that because he wants to please me, but I’ll take it though, I’ll take anything that I can get at this point.

Also at the gym we have Pale Personal Trainer and Pale Personal Trainer is not working, but he’s working out instead. And he’s working out with two other personal trainers from the gym, one of which is quite attractive I guess, and the other of which is very attractive indeed (even though not as attractive as Pale Personal Trainer – but who is, really?). And what we know about this attractive personal trainer guy is:

- He is about my height, but we’re willing to forgive him that
- His whole look is that of a ginger person, but he doesn’t actually have red hair. So he’s very pale and kinda red, with lots of freckles etc, but he has brown hair
- He is English
- He has a huge tattoo across his shoulders that reads ENGLAND in an elaborate gothic typeface. This is so unacceptably working class that it’s actually cool
- The highlight is that his nipples are so pale that they’re actually almost the same colour as the rest of his skin. This is one of my favourite quirky things on people

We will refer to this person as Ginger Personal Trainer from now on, even though he’s not.

So PPT and GPT are working out together, spotting each other, being the lads and that’s when I says to Scott, wouldn’t you like to be in that group and Scott says, no, and I says, I would. Straight and ladd-y and work-y out-y. And they remind me of a line out of The Secret History which I’m re-reading and the line says:

“A big boy, the sort who played football in high school. And the sort of son every father secretly wants: big and good-natured and not awfully bright, fond of sports, gifted at backslapping and corny jokes”

This is who I want to be and this is who I’m not.

Also, on Tuesday lunchtime I’m walking back to the office with a Boots chicken wrap in a plastic bag, and I come across ___, one of the two other writers for the Attitude piece I wrote recently.
Remember? And ___ has a copy of the magazine which they just posted to him, and I look at it briefly (VERY briefly so I'll comment on it when I have seen it properly) and then go back in the office and email Attitude to send a copy to me. Which I should have today when I get back home.

The magazine is out in the shops on Thursday 23rd July apparently and it has Steve Jones (Channel 4 presenter) on the cover, wearing just a hairy chest.

Monday, 21 July 2008

Monday 21/07/08 Part Two

Occasionally I've sat there with Frasier in the background and googled myself.  "London Preppy" anyway.  I need to stop doing that.  That's all.

Sunday, 20 July 2008

Monday 21/07/08

First here’s a reminder for the Best Reader Body competition – email pics to london.preppy@gmail.com. I will not give up on this until I have a few entries at least. Maybe just one even, you know?

On Saturday morning I’m on a crazy high, a high that you can only get when you’ve only slept a couple of hours the night before, or perhaps taken some crystal meth (I don’t know – I don’t take drugs). So I go to the gym, I go to the gym nice and early before I start crashing against that wall at the predicted time of: early afternoon.

In the gym I do back and abs with Scott and then I go in the changing room to get changed, and something that has been happening quite a lot recently, happens again. Some guy comes up behind me and starts reading something out loud. At first I think that he’s reading my underwear waistband (underwear is all I’m wearing at the moment – the waistband says Lonsdale or something or other), but then I realise that he’s, in fact, reading my back tattoo. Which I’ve completely forgotten about.

A similar thing happened at Wireless Festival recently when I had my top off and some person came up from behind me and said, is this writing an actual tattoo? And I said err…no, of course not, because I thought he was referring to the word VULGAR that A Girl had written across my upper back. I’m sorry, but I can never remember I’ve got this long piece of writing down my back.

And right about now I’m starting to understand why people don’t usually get tattoos written in plain English and they choose to have Chinese or Arabic or Greek or some other made up language like that – if you have something that people can read…they will stop and read it. If you have an idiotic symbol or picture or pattern or squiggle or writing in a foreign language, people will see that you have a tattoo, take it in at a glance, and then turn away.

After the gym I go back home and pass out on the couch for 1.5 hours in front of an episode of The Vicar of Dibley and then I wake up and put on: skinny jeans from Topman, loose fitting open shirt from the Gap (you have to offset the tightness of the skinny jeans with a baggy top – you can’t wear tight clothes all over, unless you’re a self-obsessed London-centric queen, oh wait) and bright yellow espadrilles from Office, which is an outfit that looks like this:

I realise people will probably hate this outfit above, but I didn't ask, innit.
Then I meet up with Scott and we go over to Brendan’s new flat in Oval, for a small-scale housewarming party, and in this small-scale housewarming party the following things happen:

- People drink and chat I suppose
- We go on the rooftop deck area which has a direct view straight into the Oval cricket ground (picture below)
- Brendan’s new housemate asks us what we really think of Brendan and if he’s such a nice guy as everyone tells him, how come he doesn’t remember actually visiting this very flat that he’s now moved into, about a year ago with some person he met in club for a post-clubbing chill out party?
- We fail to come up with an answer for that
- I go home

Finally, having now looked into tickets to Australia quite carefully, I’ve realised that prices aren’t what they used to be due to increased fuel prices etc, and even though six months ago you could fly to Sydney with £650 return, you are now looking at around £1,100 if you’re lucky (I’m not even considering the Round The World ticket right now, which would be an additional few hundred pounds). So I’ve changed the name of my tip jar on the right to London Preppy’s Travelling Fund, which is as subtle a hint as I’m willing to make being as ridiculous as I am.

Saturday, 19 July 2008

Saturday 19/07/08

OK so can we have some entries for the Best Reader Body competition now?  Rules and details here.  Send pictures to london.preppy@gmail.com; thanks. 

This week I’m starting to read The Secret History by Donna Tartt again, which is a book so brilliant that it has to be read repeatedly in three year intervals maximum, and it’s also the book that I’m reading this Thursday evening after work, on the tube on my way to Scott’s house. 

For this tube journey I’m wearing: white plimsolls from Urban Outfitters, knee-length Ted Baker blue/white stripy shorts, an orange t-shirt of Scott’s that he left in my house so I might as well wear it and leave it at his, big navy Ralph Lauren bag with Friday’s work and gym clothes. 

But the tube journey turns out to be very distracting, and even though I can almost put up with this blonde straight kid with big pale biceps standing opposite me with his girlfriend, when at South Kensington this dark haired straight kid with enormous West London hair, soft cotton shirt, jeans and navy espadrilles, I have to stop reading and take their pictures. 

And these pictures are… 

Blonde kid with big pals biceps and girlfriend:



Dark haired kid with jeans and espadrilles:


Then I get to Scott’s house, where Scott isn’t, so I take a shower and scratch my skin really harshly in order to get paler.  

Four Nytol later I’m in bed. 

On Friday I go to work where we play this game where my colleagues pretend that they care, my boss pretends that he actually gave it two seconds thought when deciding what our 6-month bonuses should be, and I pretend that I’m actually there. 

After work I go and buy two pairs of espadrilles to emulate the guy from the tube (not navy though, white and yello) and then… 

…I go to the gym where I do chest and abs, Superman tells me that he thought the tattoo on my leg was either my name or the names of my children, I tell him that I’m childless, he tells me what his tattoos mean, we tell each other that we should really stop getting more, but we know it's addictive. 

On Friday night I start thinking about my flight to Sydney a bit more, consider buying a Round The World ticket so I can make a few stops on the way, come up with an itinerary which involves traveling over America instead of Asia (I don’t want to mention yet which cities I’ll be stopping at until it’s confirmed), panic because it sounds like a logistical nightmare, email ___ who works for BA and ask him whether he can help me get cheaper tickets, go to bed at 0200… 

…stay up until 0400 when I take some Nytol again, wake up at 0800, stay in bed unable to sleep until 0930, get up and start hating this fucking Saturday already because I haven’t slept and my day is already ruined.

Thursday, 17 July 2008

Friday 18/07/08

After the roaring success that was the Best Looking Reader 2007 competition, where approximately only 3% of entrants sent genuine pictures and not pictures they cut and pasted from Free Naked Sportsmen websites (“this is me scoring the winning try for the University Cup last year, it’s a bit blurry because Derek was drunk”), Bodybuilding.com (“I always make the time to read your latest self-loathing rant before I walk on stage slathered in oil and fake tan to flex my muscles”) and the Gant spring/summer 07 catalogue (“I’m a beautiful, sun-kissed, outdoorsy Adonis from Barnsley, South Yorkshire”)…I have decided to bring it all back for this year.

But it’s going to be a little different.

At a desperate attempt to get some proper, genuine entries, this is now going to be the Best Reader Body 2008 competition. This means that you don’t have to send a face picture, or even a face picture with the eyes blocked; just a body shot, so hopefully more people will enter.

Here are the rules for the BRB 08:

1) You must send 2-3 pictures. Definitely not just one. We all know pictures can be misleading – give us a chance innit.

2) As mentioned above, feel free to just send body shots / not include your face. I.e. headless shots perfectly acceptable, if not preferable. This is about body fitness only. Then again, if you want to include your face, or include your face and block your eyes in London Preppy style, I’m not going to stop you, it’s up to you.

3) To make sure that it’s you, please include a London Preppy reference in the pictures that you send. Hold a piece of paper up that says London Preppy, have a computer in the picture with the website on the screen, write LP on your thigh, I don’t care, something like that. In all of them.

4) You can be male or female, or neither or both. I’d rather you were one of the two though. Or just male, really.

5) Please don’t send any completely naked pictures / pictures of your reproductive organs.

6) You don’t have to say what your name is. You can if you want of course, but you can use an alias. As long as you send your age and the city/country where you live, I’m happy.

7) Last time we had this rule where I shouldn’t know you in real life. That’s not valid anymore. Even if I do know you, you can still enter.

As we did last time, I’ll wait for all the entries to come in, narrow it down to a top 5 (top 10? depending on the number of entries) and then we’ll have a public vote amongst all the blog readers.

The prizes are:

a) I’ll dedicate a day’s post to the winner; maybe ask them some questions, that sort of thing (see winner’s post last year)

b) I’ll promote anything you want on the blog for a week (your own blog, your website, etc). Anything that’s not illegal. Wait, I take that back – especially anything that’s illegal.

c) We can sleep together if you want / if you’re that way inclined, but I’m not necessarily forcing this upon you.

d) You can also have £5 in cash via paypal. The prize was £10 last year, but we all know about the state of the UK economy at the moment, plus I’m saving money for my trip.

Please email your entries to london.preppy@gmail.com

You have three week starting today, i.e. entries must be submitted by 2359 Friday 8th August.