Thursday, 30 October 2008

The Longpigs - On and on

On this Wednesday afternoon I rent a white van at the price of £40 per day (plus VAT) and I decide to keep this van for two days. Over these two days I play the role of some guy driving a white van. For this adventure I am wearing dark brown Timberland boots, black Ralph Lauren sweat socks, old jeans from Diesel and a red t-shirt with The London Fire Brigade Supports Pride written at the front in white caps.

Half an hour later I have crashed the white van into a bollard in a car park in Acton and have consequently lost my £100 deposit. I try to care about this, but what actually happens is that when I hear the sound of the bollard scraping the white paint off just above the left hand side head light, I reverse and drive back into it with more force. This is the kind of spineless self-harm I've been reduced to since I started self-medicating 20mg of Xanax on an 8-hourly basis.

On Wednesday evening, I get back in the van and start driving west, way out west, past any humanly acceptable border of London. It's around 0130 when I find myself outside Hounslow Central tube station parked on a double yellow listening to an hour of tearjerkers on Magic 105.4. Even with most of my mind numbed, no wait, lost, there is something comforting in the knowledge that no matter what happens, no matter what you do, no matter where you are, there will always be a late night radio station playing Richard Marx, Right Here Waiting For You.

Once that song ends and before the next tearjerker comes on, I get out and walk into the 24-hour Asda just off the Hounslow roundabout. I buy a pack of pumpkin seeds, two breaded chicken breasts and a box of Asda Extra Special chocolate truffles, which I leave on the pavement just outside the shop, get back in the van, drive back home (Listen To Your Heart, Carried Away, Crazy For You amongst others played on the way) and go to bed.

By Friday evening, and now van-less, I still haven't showered but I've changed into Timberland deck shoes, different pair of Diesel jeans and green/grey Lyle & Scott polo shirt. I walk to Caring Cross Road Sainsburys Local from ___ (where I'm staying right now) and buy a salmon pasta salad and two bottles of Frijj milkshake (limited edition chocolate brownie flavour with picture of Chief Wiggum on), all of which I eat/drink as I cross the road and go into Borders.

In Borders I walk up to the third floor and spend the rest of the evening looking through and taking pictures of the following books from the Home section: Victorian House Style / Georgian House Style / Wooden Houses: From Log Cabins To Beach Houses / Dictators' Homes: Lifestyles Of The World's Most Famous Despots. I'm sitting in a leather chair, there are several other people in chairs reading, Air's Talkie Walkie is playing through the speakers on the whole floor (I'm not sure about other floors), there is one guy with a pile of magazines including AXM who I glance over at regularly because he's gay and so am I, everyone goes home. I have not spoken to anyone for 49 hours.

Wednesday, 15 October 2008

Elastica - Never here

And like anyone needed it, here's a second by second analysis of THAT video of THOSE boys goofing around to Total Eclipse Of The Heart that I posted last week.

Here's the video again so you don't have to scroll down.

OK so these are three guys that are in a college doing some stupid degree like Business Studies or something and on this Tuesday at 0130 they decided to play a song that they thought was hilariously cheesy and camp and lip sync / dance along to it. This is almost lost on me because I consider Total Eclipse of the Heart to be one of the best songs ever written without any irony involved, but there you go. I’m going to pretend I get it anyway.

They also decided to take their tops off, because they know very well what us losers who spend our free time on the internet are like.

I don’t know exactly when this video was shot, but I’m going to guess it’s at least few years old. We don’t have much evidence on this, I can’t even make out the posters on the wall, but that computer monitor on the right there kinda screams 1999.

Other favourite details in the room include:

- The straight-boy running trainers haphazardly left in front of the desk. HAPHAZARDLY!

- The mess on the bed. What the hell is on that bed? And why isn’t any of these boys tidying up? It’s a whole different world, isn’t it?

- The white tilted lampshade next to the bed. The lampshade was straight until boy no.2 came home drunk with a girl one Friday night, only to proceed into such experimental, acrobatic sexual activities that any furniture and decorative ornaments around just had to surrender.

Now then. The boys.

Boy no.1 – the boy in the middle.

Boy no.1 is my least favourite. Of course he’s the main character and the others look up to him and adore him and he bosses them around and he gets all the chicks and he may not be the best academically, but somehow he always gets away with it and does well for himself and everyone likes him apart from the people he bullies but even they have to pretend that they do like him because he’s so popular…so naturally I like the others more.

Plus he looks like somebody that Sean Cody put together as a contrived model of “straight jock”. Tan AND blonde highlights AND white coral necklace AND suspiciously Abercrombie looking shorts. Well I guess maybe these people do exist.

Regardless, he’s still very good and I love him with most of my heart.

Boy no.3 – the boy in the background.

Boy no.3 is my second favourite. It’s a shame that no one’s paying any attention to him because everyone’s watching Boy no.1 who has a natural star and Boy no.2 (more of which later) who is a gorgeous, pleasant straight boy.

If you get over the other two boys for a second and focus on the unshapely one in the background, you’ll see that he’s giving the performance of a lifetime. The Rodin’s Thinker pose at 0:05, the explosion at 0:13 (completely unrelated to the music), how he grabs his knob at 0:24 – all classic moments.

But still, none of this is enough to distract us from Boy no.2 – the boy on the left.

Boy no.2 is the greatest boy that has ever lived. In the long tradition of boys that are good looking and natural and seem genuinely nice (e.g. Harvey from Sabrina The Teenage Witch and…erm that’s it) I desperately want to be Boy no.2.

Boy no. 2 has effortless hair, a flawless face, an effortless athletic body and the pièce de résistance, little white socks. I love love love those. I love love love him.

Favourite moments in the life of Boy no.2 for me, include:

0:01 a close up of his chest

0:03 he turns around, looks at me straight in the face and sings: turn around

0:04 to 0:19 he looks at Boy no.1 for 15 continuous seconds, trying to get some approval, his attention, a look back, anything. This confirms to anyone who was stupid enough to doubt it still, who the leader of this group is. This dynamic of this group is not a democratic one, it never was and it never will be. We all know that, but we’re OK with it. Of course Boy no.1 completely ignores him for these long 15 seconds, as he’s preoccupied with his good self

0:25 he raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes dramatically as he looks at me again

0:28 still with Boy no.1’a best interests at heart, he gently pulls the chair back to give him more space. This is the most homosexual action I have ever witnessed in my 28 years. At the same time, it’s not homosexual at all, it’s just Boy no.2 being nice, nice like I never will be and I never will understand, because unfortunately, I’m more like Boy no.1 myself

0:31 to 0:40 this is where his amazing silly straight boy choreography begins (bent knees, finger clicking, up-and-down arm movement, magnificent back-and-forth stepping with the left foot), a choreography that’s cut off suddenly and heart-breakingly on the 40th second mark, leaving me with a hole in my heart, wait, I never had one anyway.

In other news, thanks to whoever was responsible for putting screenshots of London Preppy on the BBC News channel the other day, in some story about blogs, as seen here:

And finally, on Wednesday afternoon I ring up Scott and the following conversation takes place:

Me: Is this good or is this bad?

Scott: For Madonna?

Me: No, for us.

Scott: Neither. Anyway when did you hear this devastating news?

Me: 15 minutes ago.

Scott: And you waited all this time to tell me?

Me: Yes, I had to deal with this on my own first.

Scott: What did you do, take a walk in the park?

Me: No, I sat here and played Like A Prayer a few times.

And on this Wednesday afternoon as the world falls apart I put on a green t-shirt, pink and white striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, white knee-length shorts and no shoes, pick up a copy of American Psycho and leave the flat.

Sitting on the steps just outside, I read the last lines from the book:

“…and above one of the doors covered by red velvet drapes in Harry’s there is a sign and on the sign in letters that match the drapes’ colour are the words THIS IS NOT AN EXIT”

And try to be upset by this, try to be upset by the fact that THIS IS NOT AN EXIT, by the fact that THERE IS NO EXIT, even though I wasn’t let in in the first place.

Tuesday, 7 October 2008

Gene - Haunted by you

I reckon if I post sporadically on here I can control it and it doesn't have to take over my life again and leave me with no time or inclination to do anything else. So the London Preppy who posted obsessively every day may be dead, but I'll probably write as and when, like this is just a blog, like it's not that important to me, like it never was.

And here's one of these - very casual - posts.

Now a propos of nothing, I love love love this.

Finally, here's a blog that's good. I mean that. It's intelligent and it's funny and other positive adjectives that I can't think of right now because I'm watching Greek X Factor and 67% of my brain has fallen asleep.

It's written by Nats' friends. You know Nats. She used to be one of The Lads.

And finally finally, remember my article for Attitude a couple of months ago? Well they still haven't paid me for it. And now they're not returning my emails. I'm trying to be surprised by this, but

Friday, 3 October 2008

Friday 03/10/08

And Scott is on the phone and we're talking about the comments that people left to the post yesterday and the emails that they sent me and Scott says: "Yes, the public outpours.  London Preppy was the People's Princess and he will be missed".  Then the phone goes dead because it's run out of battery.  How apt.

Thursday, 2 October 2008

Thursday 02/10/08

This is the last London Preppy post.

No wait, this doesn’t sound nearly heart-wrenching enough.  I’m rephrasing.

London Preppy is dead.

I could write a typical last-post-ever entry, where I would say “my heart’s not in it anymore”, “I’ve run out of things to say”, “I’d rather end on a high”, etc.  But none of these things are true.  I have lots more to say (regardless of who wants to hear them), writing is one of the things that makes me genuinely happy so my heart will always be in it and I don’t care about ending on a high – in fact I’d rather keep on posting, dragging my sorry blog around until there were no readers left, being in denial about its success.

But this website is not where I want to say these things anymore.

I’ve never thought of this as a typical blog anyway.  OK, there have been silly lists of things and there have been ill-conceived (regretful) picture posts, and there have been youtube videos with music that I like, but what I’ve mostly tried to do on London Preppy is create a character, create a narrative and write every day like I would if I were writing a book. 

There are around 500 posts on here and give or take all the visual rubbish and typical blog padding, I like to think there is some solid reading material that stands alone outside the blogging world.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’d like to write professionally and that I want to have my work published.  And now I want to focus on that.

I will continue writing every day – because I can’t not write – but what I write will not be posted on here day after day; instead it will form the basis of a series of short stories or a novel or whatever I end up coming up with.

The London Preppy fanpage on facebook remains, and if you want you can join that, I’m sure I’ll send something out to let people know if anything happens with the writing malarkey (link here)

Also, the London Preppy reading is still happening at the Polari literary night on the 10th of December, held at Freedom Bar in Soho (link here).  Maybe you should go.  Who knows maybe somebody will give me a publishing deal then and put me out of my misery.

Finally, and because I may have been called a lot of things, but I’ve never been called a fool and I realize that London Preppy is a brand, a brand that holds some power in the gay blogging world at least (blimey, what an acclaim, it’s like being second runner-up in the Miss Scunthorpe beauty pageant; but I’ll take anything I can get really, any old slap in the face) and I’m not just gonna let it go like that; I’m not shutting down this page.  I like my three quarters of a million hits, thank you very much. will continue to exist and I will post intermittently, but it will not be London Preppy stuff.  It won’t be about “me”, it won’t be the usual trademarked big ego/low self-esteem formula that's proven more popular than Coca Cola (thanks Orville for the quote).  So I’ll just ruin the brand.  Oh well, I guess I wasn’t paying attention at my Marketing degree after all.

Finally finally, I can’t even begin to thank everyone who read London Preppy.  It was kinda of a big deal by the end, wasn’t it?  Who would have thought.

But as we said, London Preppy is dead.

My name is Might Have Been

My name is Never Was

My name’s forgotten