Things that should be forbidden

1. Groups of fat women in coaches going to see Billy Elliott at the Victoria Palace Theatre.
2. Selling anything made of Lycra to a man.
3. Halloween trick or treaters
4. That "tricky time" song, what is it..."say hello" or something filthy
5. Trans fats
6. Mark Knopfler
7. Gatwick airport
8. Jade from America's next top model, dirty ugly slag.
9. The end of the weekend
10. My expanding waistline.

In a totally self absorbed moment, I have rightly or wrongly finally decided that I am no longer going to be able to pass myself off as naturally stunningly gorgeous in this town, and have enlisted the assistance of a heavy duty anti aging agent. I'm not talking about slipping into a booze enduced coma, or even attempting a futurama type head transplant thereby living my life with my head in a jar like Joan Rivers is destined to do. No, I have gone and purchased product from our wonderful French cosmetics house L'Oreal, because fuck youse all, I'm worth it too.

Now, as I was parading through the aisles of Galleries Lafayette on the weekend, I spotted the new aging formula lotion that they are currently plugging on TV, on posters at the gym, on iTunes, in the Metro, on the fluff under my bed...and I thought, "oooooooohhhh Eddie, you're SO worth it. Tarry, delve at once into thy pouch and surrender a few golden florins for the transaction".

Now, being France, and a French product, would you expect that the type on the bottles and/or the instructions inside might be in English? Well, yes, for christs sake. I do. But that's because I'm a friggen lunatic at the best of times. I mean, I actually took a Barbie and Ken doll on holiday and all around Rio de Janeiro once.

So now I have this lovely product, and I dont know what it is, or what it does. But its fabulous and I feel wonderful. The lable claims that it will STOP RIDES. What rides? The mad mouse? The rotor? The ferris wheel? Sigh, I don't know. As long as it doesn't make my ears drop off, limit my ability to judge others, or sing showtunes, or squash my libido... HA!

xx

Peek a boo!

The sexiest man on earth

Im sitting watching the E! channel, like you do on a sunday and this guy came on and I nearly dropped my bundle.
His name is Sebastian Rulli, and he's an Argentinian Novello actor.

Now the E! channel program is finished, Im on the web, booking a flight to Buenos Aires...

A rough week and a ramble....

This week has been a little rough chez Keslakia. Our boiler went on the fritz, which, in the setting October sun, can often spell shivering doom. Thank God for global warming. Seriously, the biggest inconvenience was returning from a rather vigorous walk around Manchester city in the rain on Wednesday and wanting a hot bath. Even though I grew up with English parents, we never were made to endure a flannel bath, or a washcloth, "up and down". No, my mother is a lady of refinement and dignity, a trait I have always admired in her. Love you mum.

So I have been showering at the Gym every day this week. What comes to mind in this scenario is the sign at the North Sydney swimming pool in the men's changerooms which, as a boy, swimming there regularly and always aware of the shocking parade of male nudity (not bad either I might reminisce at this point), that proclaimed "LOITERING NOT PERMITTED"... Being the diligent and law abiding citizen I was, even at an early age, it never occurred to me to do otherwise. It was much later in life that I discovered that all the lovely hot (straight) men who swam at these reputable baths with the no loitering permitted changerooms, were actually doing a hell of a lot more than loitering. * insert sigh of lost lust here *

So I guess I've been enjoying loitering around the changerooms with no other purpose Than To Be Clean. I might need to spend some time in there. So what? Its like the Village People always claimed. There's a a place you can meet, a sauna, and a toilet. Heck, I cant walk into the gym then walk out 15 minutes later. People might talk.

I have been meaning to blog this week, but seriously I've been so busy with my crappy back, and with catching up on work that I didn't do last week because of my crappy back. The crappy back is because I haven't spent enough time loitering around the swimming pool, and have too much time drinking too much fine Belgian beer.

My friend Nick at work came and surprised me today. He popped his head over the partition and said "you're a Keane fan aren't you" to which I replied, "are you stalking me? But yeah, like, the biggest. "oh" he says "I'm off to see them tonight." And every doubt about being here vanished in a second. It's like, shit, just popping out on a Friday night to see KEANE - my favourite band at the moment. And anyone who knows me well knows that usually I like "bands" as much as I like themed restaurants, or ingrown nail surgery.

Well ner, tomorrow the Keslake family are catching the 7.05 Eurostar to Paris. That's right, all of us are off there for a family trip (except for Mrs Pussy Tummycurtins. She is giving an opera recital for the Contessa de Beauberg von Schlossenhoffen. She's very good.)

But back to me, I can't say how I'm looking forward to a weekend in gay old Paris. It really is my favourite city on earth, even when you include the burning cars, swarms of Japanese tourists (used to those) and lack of personal hygiene. I mean, hey, I haven't had a shower at home for a week, I'm in the zone, monsieur.

Needless to say, you'll hear about it.

xx

Back to normal

I'm pretty much back to normal. Which is a good thing because back then I felt a bit backed up and I was wondering if I was ever going to back door it again. But now everything is fine.

An epiblog to this one, courtesy of Fiona,

"a back door guest is always best".

A back up plan.

I don't like to be unwell.

I seriously make a very poor patient. Usually in life, I tend to have a fairly long fuse except when any form of transportation is involved, a fact quite possibly a touch believable if you've been reading this blog for a while. You see, for most things in life I possess an inner calm that delicately envelopes my inner turmoil and rage, kind of like a layer of Baileys over a rather snappy Finlandia, or like that tasty processed cheese slice on a burger...mmmm.....burger.

Ok, so in an effort to retain my calm, I have decided to take the day off as a sick day. I got up bright and early, after a refreshing night's sleep, and was still a bit wobbly getting dressed. At the very sensible suggestion of my flatmate, I decided that really, a day of rest was probably the best thing for someone in my state. So on went the trakkie dacks and the favourite "Hooter's girls dig me" t-shirt, and the day of rest begun.

You see, over the last few days, even walking has become somewhat of a chore. On Wednesday, I had a meeting first thing, and made the error of sitting down (oh, what was I thinking!?) and then seriously couldn't get up. I don't know which was more embarrassing, having my collegue who sits next to me rubbing IBULEVE cream into my bottom in the glass meeting room in front of the whole office, or when he eventually had to wheel me back to my desk on my chair because I couldn't walk. So you can see, I'm fairly justified in not going in today, not so much because no one wants to see a cripple hobbling around the office like a half dead Janice Dickinson (is that tautology?), but because really I'm just too embarrassed to be seen.

One of the beneffits of stying home flat on your back is you get to watch mindless cable. We have NTL - the kind of "optusvision" of the UK. Its SHIT, we have no movie channels and all it plays all day is reruns of Hollyoaks and Angel. Seriously, the sci fi channel only plays Angel. Who EVER watched that?

So this morning, I implemented my sick day back up plan (boom boom). A few weeks ago, I purchased the box set of Battlestar Galactica series 2. Seriously good stuff. After I purchased the set, Peter watched the first 8 episodes whilst I played the Sims 2. I don't know why I got distracted by those pesky little Sims, it's just so adorable when you get the guys to flirt and then make out.

So I have a little catching up to do on Battlestar Galactica, and according to today's visual dear reader, you can see why this is not such a bad thing, cant you now?
mmm Jamie Bamber...

Life is like boxes of crap.

Ok ok, so it seems Morbo have more tan 2 or 3 readers! OH MY GOD MORBO LOVE YOU ALL! I really mean it. I know I haven't blogged for a wee while, It's been a little hectic chez Keslakia, we've had all manner of things happen over the last week or so, so I guess I will just start ranting at the beginning.

Well, last week I got a promotion at work. Now I am an associate of my lovely firm that I just love. I have been given lots of new projects that rock, and I'm going to get a nice new big desk. Yippee. If you think I've been out celebrating, think again. I've actually started bringing work home, which isn't all that bad. Its something I have always struggled with, because I'm essentially a lazy bastard and I believe that home is for me time.

So what sucks right now? Well, the busses, for a start. Don't even get me onto how much the rush hour still gets to me. But I somehow have managed this week, dear reader, to put those piffling trifles aside in the context of what has happened to me as I hurtle through this crazy old London musical, in dance pants and character pumps.

It all started last weekend when we licked ahem picked up more than a small car that took us off to Heathrow to collect our boxes of freight that Freddy had sent through the week. We crammed them all into the car and 79 hours later we arrived home with our bootie just to have to lug all 100 kg up our stairs. Ignoring 15 years of osteopathic treatment, I strained, and pulled and heaved ( activities I am usually very good at ) the damned things all the way up. Morbo was truly foolish.

Thankfully, the pain didn't manifest itself until 3 days later when I was in the shower at the gym. The gym shower is usually a steaming, heaving (there I go again) male Pantheon of flexing muscles and simmering glances; guys walking slowly around checking out each other, a bit like Steamworks, so I'm told.

So imagine my embarrassment as I huddle out of the shower, dripping wet, grimacing with so much pain to render me totally unable to dress myself. In a scene like something out of an American Pie film, I dried off and began to dress, only to become totally entangled in my own underpants and falling flat on the floor. That's me, all glamour.

I think I probably should have gone home right then, but I was just too busy at work, having all these new responsibilities, and so much to prove and all. A lovely colleague took me to Boots to get me some painkillers. You cant even get Voltarin here, its mad, all I could get was Ibuprofen, which, in this case is kind of like rubbing rose hip oil on a shark bite.

To make matters worse, I came out of the gym and headed to my favourite coffee chop to get a real coffee (not that lactose imbalanced poisoned International roast flavoured beverage they have the nerve to call coffee in this country) and the f***ing s*** b**** behind the counter actually went to serve me American style burned filtered shit in a jug. All the pain and fear and resentment of my shower humiliation came out in one big long Morbo style bark ... "NOOOOOOOO" it made her ...and even myself ...jump.



Never was the term have nice cup of tea and a lay down more approporiate at this point. Needless to say, since then, I have spent much time resting, £50 on a visit to the Osteopath and countless hours whining to anyone who will listen. At least it's taken my mind off the friggin BUSSES for a moment.

NNNNGGGGGG MORBO WISHES YOU ALL GOOD NIGHT.

Bananarama - Look On The Floor (Angel City VIDEO Mix)

Do you really believe that these girls are seducing any of these boys? Love to see these old narnies are still mucking around and getting all the jokes. Not bad for two 40 something lasses.

So, what's in an effigy?

Have either of you (the two of you who I KNOW read this) noticed how, over the years, the effigy of our wonderful monarch has changed? I'm not talking about her changing stylist the same way that

Christina Aguilera aka Dee Snyder has just suddenly realised " oh my god, I might get a new stylist, because I think this ONE GOT IT WRONG", but more specifically, in her portrait on coins.

Growing up in a far off colony, I always had romantic notions of the Queen, whilst my beach faring friends were all rubbishing her, I secretly wanted to BE her. Yes, is it any surprise to either of you that I'm the big noncing knitting royal wannabe that I seem to be? Aspirations sweetie, no one can ever tell you I didn't have'em.

So I always gazed upon the 20 cent piece, the smaller, lighter 10 cent piece and the tiny, "oh my stars, I might need to get my monocle out to see what's on this one" five cent piece with some wonderment at how the queens effigy seemed to keep up with the times. I distinctly recall, in the late 70's and early 80's of the slender necked romantic portrait with a glamorous small tiara, whereby she would have been the star attraction at any fashion gala in Milan, Paris, London or Balmoral.

Then as I got older, shock horror, she did too. Her effigy seemed to grow old too, and not so glamorously. I mean, I kind of feel a little ripped off here, how can someone with more exposure than George Michael on Hampstead Heath not take the golden opportunity to glam herself up a little?

I was in Canada earlier this year, and there the effigy of our great and merciful yet somewhat oil of ulay free monarch is even more dire. In Canada, she is positively old and GRUMPY. And its a similar tale of woe begotten dire ickiepoos in Australia. I am quite saddened by this, it's unfair, to say the very least, as she is after all, the figure head of nearly a third of the world's people. And also an icon of the 20th century. Why wouldn't you want to be noticed on a daily basis by millions as at least a remnant of old world glamour...

The truth is, I guess, she doesn't have much choice. Whatever she does, and however she does it, the people, her subjects, to whom she has dedicated her whole life to in service, will find some fault with her, and criticize her for being too this or too that, too cold or too frivolous, too distant or too stoic, and here, too not living up to her glamorous potential.

Well, Liz, no matter what, and no matter my disappointment at the aging of your effigy, I will always stand up for you on the bus, and always offer you a sip of my Godiva chocolate raspberry chocolate milkshake, and of all the queens in the world, you will always be my favourite Queen.

GSTQ.
x

Made In Brazil

Everyone loves Brazil. COME ON! have you been there? its FABULOUS.

This is a picture from our hotel window on our first night we were there for the second time. It was fabulous. we got into SO MUCH TROUBLE ended up in a favela after dark, went to every club and ate Bob's hamburgers as the sun came up talking shit. Getting mugged, eating so much sizzling beef and chicory root.. hot men, really hot men, and really really really really hot men. Capiche?

Ahh Miss Lisa, if you're reading this, it was such fun and I will never forget having such a fun adventure with you.

SO in the spirit of "just throw a stick on the beach and any guy it lands on I will have sex with", check out the Brazillian men at the Made in Brazil blog on the side tab. Hubba fucking hubba.

http://madeinbrazil.typepad.com/

Pleasant..dreams.

x

Adventures in British Food Chapter 1. The Cornish Pasty

Welcome to the first of my forays into the delights of British cuisine. British cuisine? Isn't that an oxymoron, I hear you ask? Well, no, not really, because the British are responsible for all sorts of culinary atrocities, which, I'm humbled to admit, I do find rather tasty from time to time.

Its a well known fact that I am rather fond of my food...well eating really. It brings to mind an image of my first ever pet, a labrador named George, who was totally capable of eating his own body weight in just about anything; dog food, lamb chops, dirt, krill, dad's socks. Now my repertoire certainly isn't as distinguished as said pooch. But I'm not particularly squeamish when it comes to eating.

Hence, dear reader, I bring to you my first essay on the delights of old blighty that one may fine in culinary houses accross this green and pleasant land. (you will note this isn't the first entry regarding things that go in my mouth, and I promise it wont be the last).

So, the Cornish Pasty. What i was expecting was slimy pastry resembling something that only can be found lurking in a bain marie of some fast food wagon at a country carnival after all the carnies have gone home. You know, when they scrape down the insides of the wagons once a year, before giving them a good hosing out. Yep those scrapings.

The reality is its lovely and light and tasty and golden and hot. Delicious. And there is just so much of it. Its all lumpy and fatty around the thickened edge.


A good friend of mine who visited recently and who knows the answers to EVERYTHING told me that it was originally made this way because it was miners fare, and it was the bit they held onto so that they would contaminate the meaty bit. like, you know, a um handle. Then they would throw that bit away. Clearly I'm not dirty (well not in that sense), nor am I a miner (though not according to some people). So Im hanging on to my pastry handle thanks.

The fillings within provide a veritable smorgasboard of choice. The other day I had one with minted lamb. Then today I had one with a lovely steak filling. The quality of the meat was good, the flavours not synthetic at all, there wasn't too much gravy and I didn't have an MSG hangover afterwards. It was delicious, truly.

So Mr Cornish Pasty, I'm giving you an 8 out of 10. And you will be a regular in my lunchbox. Although, my flatmate said to me later on when we were comparing the health benefits of our lunch, and I claimed mine was probably a 6 out of 10 for health, she said "well what would you classify as 0 out of 10? Intravenous Lard??"

Hmm. maybe she has a point.

Cold

Now listen up. I'm not a whinger. Occasionally I get slightly irrate, like when the stupid woman behind the counter at Pret thinks I don't know she's slipping me a regular capp instead of the strong capp I had ordered, please. Or the time that rather wide bottomed man thought I was interested in him, but still felt he needed to turn ME down because my biceps weren't big enough, or once when I was told the bar was closed and my reaction resembled Rebecca De Mornay's toilet tantrum from 'the hand that rocked the cradle'. No, I'm a calm and cool customer.




In fact, I have just returned from a jaunt in Iceland, where, in comparison to me, it was positively tropical. I'm not sure if its my gradual acclimatising to the cooler climes of Grand Bretangne, or if its because the daily turge on the tube is making me narkier than Janice Dickinson with a firecracker up her ass, but I'm not feeling the cold like I used to.

We can wonder for hours why this might be so. It would be terribly self indulgent and narcissistic, so i'll go on.

Could it be that the absence of good coffee has altered the molecular structure of my skin, causing me to wither up, like an old prune (or Janice Dickinson), totally oblivious to any sensory stimulation that doesn't come with an under 18 warning on it?

Or maybe it's just that I've bought so many clothes that I can't feel anything because I'm rugged up to the ahem, hilt.

What I can confirm, is that I seem to have developed, rather disproportionately, a rather splendid additional amount of body hair. Whilst I'm not going to classify myself just yet as a bear cub, or even an otter at that, I do think its time to take a little visit to the little body shop of horrors.

My usual manscaping routine involves a brisk once over with the clipper, military style, to enhance the appearance of what god, and genetically enhanced and hormone heavy chicken fillets have given me. It's rather brutal, and I think at my age, military twink is just a little far fetched for even me. What's next? Hotpants and a whistle?

So I'm taking a step down on the manscaping and keeping my lovely hirsuitedness to a level that befits a gentleman of my age, and refinement. At least at the next fancy dress I go to I can just go as the Sasquatch, or Chewbacca, or anything created by Jim Henson.

And at least I will not be cold.