Welcome Home James

Been out to dinner this evening in with James and The BF for a lovely dinner. Having an interesting recap of the weekend's festivities in Berlin. WOW what a place, and wow what an amazing club, snax.

oooh we were the only ones behaving, because, we have class.

Attack of the Krispy Kremes

As I hurtle underground to get back to my fabulous new Sony Vaio and the treasure trove of delights within facebook, I am sharply reminded by the strain against my belt by my fabulously rotund Porte cochere that it has been another day away from the gym.

In synch with the horror of my rapidly evolving apron, I am starting to feel like I'm letting team gay down by getting a little portly. i guess if the weather had been better I might not feel so much like I was still in hibernation. all excuses I know.

What I cant abide though are people who have birthdays and feel the need to bring to work not one but two! BOXES of Krispy Kremes for afternoon tea.

So on top of last nights bangers and mash I now have 2 fat filled donuts to work off. Thanks a lot Mr Krispy you big nasty fatty Krispy thing you.

NHS souffle

You will need:
1 really really genuine complaint
Tables, chairs and a big carton of toys.
25 to 30 fairly unwell and irritated people
Endless patience
An LCD notice board.
A hot suny day
3 hours to waste
A small waiting room
42 small children
small plastic projectiles ie blocks.
an Ipod with loud speakers.
A computer, perhaps 2 or more just in case.

to make:

1. prepare your workspace by arranging chairs and toys in random criss cross pattern around room.
2. scatter people and children randomly around room. take care to arrange older and younger children around the toy carton for maximum conflict opportunity.
3. Add a big computer failure without back up (see, that second one would have come in handy). Simmer patience.
4. look for parents of children in play area. if none around because as you suspect they have left them here for the day, then turn ipod up and breathe deeply.
5. check ailment and see if it's really at all that bad. If swallowing feels like eating barbed wire, then keep in room until called on LCD screen.
6. check patience against. If thin then adjust ipod
7. close all windows and doors to room and arm children with projectiles. cook on hot summer day until called or demented, which ever comes quickest.

5 wonderful things

I have been a little more than preoccupied lately.

It's been a difficult time. Work has been mental, my happy home life has been anything but, and I have been neglecting my health and fitness. Needless to say i have put on MORE weight, which doesn't actually make living life in the gay lane any easier.

The last 2 weeks have been particularly heinous. I got dragged in front of the GLA (Greater Londo Authority) becasue a schme i worked on failed planning because if insufficient play proviion. I was shattered that i had obviously fucked up so bad. Until i realised that it was because the guidance had changed in the time we had lodged the planning submission and the LM was just being "diligent" in regards to his brand new policy...

Then I had to go to Cyprus to present a masterplan scheme which I really needed to have dome a bit more work on, so i got a bit kaned.

The sense of working 70-80 hour weeks and still being behind the 8 ball really sux. Its obvious that there is a little too much on my plate right now.

In any case, today i had a good day. So in celebration I bought a bottle of champers, and would like to share with you the 5 good things that happened to me today.

1. I woke up without a hangover feeling refreshed and like I had had a good sleep. It's really something rare nowadays. Mum, it's not really - this is just poetic licence...

2. I found 3 new friends on facebook from Australia - I might just admit that I'm a little obsessed. Tell me, who isn't?

3. I actually had time today to finally lodge my expenses. I might actually be able to pay my credit card ths month.

4. I got a lovely card and photo of Jane and Adilsen from their wedding recently - if you recall, my dad had to give their speech - Im sad I missed the wedding, but so glad that I have at least 1 picture of SOMEONE from my family now.

5. I swam 70 laps at the Queen mother pool. This is only 1.75km, but considering I havn't swum ANY laps in over 8 months, I'm pretty happy about that.

So now im having a glass of champers and salad for dinner. Maybe this will be my staple diet for the next few months. Maybe i'll just do the champers.

My Simpsons avatar

To celebrate the new Simpson's movie, I have decided to follow the trend and get myself a character. Its not easy to get a good likeness, as my friend David pointed out, and he is right. They dont have the ability to have designer man scaped stubble, nor is there the option for tattoos or body piercings.

Boot camp!

I'm not really sure if it's the barrel gut I seem to perpetually be struggling with, or the fact that I'm just bored with life right now, but I have thrown all caution to the wind, completely ignored both my knee injury and lower back pain and signed on to boot camp.

It started last week and funnily enough I felt quite OK afterwards. The next day I felt fantastic. Day 2 and I was a blithering mess with little to no feeling in my quads.

Why does it take that long for this sort of thing to kick in? I mean, usually after a big night at the disco, I'm feeling satisfactorily shattered the very next day. And lets not even talk about what happens to my body after a weekend craft-a thon. Sometimes it takes weeks for my nimble little fingers to regain feeling through those hearty calluses.

So tonight, I have just returned from my second session. I did think that the little twinge in my groin would disappear to nothing after a few sweaty lunges and a couple of star jumps around the park. But after 3 laps of serious lunging the pain became so intense that I was rolling around in the grass like Jude Law in a mob of nannies with severe groin strain.

Now I can't feel my nuts.

Ice pack, doctor Pete. I need healing....

Too damned RIGHT!

I'm worth it! being totally hooked into the new L'Oreal for men thing, I was watching the telle visssion the other night only to behold one of the spunkiest men on the earth, delivering the line I always wanted to hear from his glistening lips. MMMM George Eads....

Sigh. I have nothing else to say, but the video will appear here soon....

Come along then old ducky

My goddamned back again. What is going on? why oh why, Delilah?

You know, apart from the crippling pain that shoots through me every time i so much as look towards an object not directly in front of me, the thing I can't bear about back pain is the frustrating inconvenience of it all. I've had to take another day off work, because of the sheer annoyance of not being able to go from a very painful sitting position, to a less than comfortable standing position. And as for my dance class? pah! Jive Bunny gave up on me years ago.

What I do need to do though is walk around. So off I went today to the supermarket to buy a few essentials (L'Oreal, Durex, Lavazza) as well as some diced beef for the heavenly CSIRO provencale cassoulet. I shopped very light, knowing that I couldnt carry much, and that I am on a diet, and NOT buying rubbish, which, you'll be pleased to know, I did not.

However, I did buy a cantaloup, which, as my bag ended up weighing a tonne anyway, was probably not the most sensible of purchases.

......................

"Are you going to that register? Excuse me are you heading to that register?" I shouted at the near dead white haired old bat as she shuffled aimlessly around the register area, looking directly at me but not registering a word. She kind of reminded me of Madonna.

The entire supermarket was full of wrinklies. The average age must have been about 65 and that's INCLUDING the troup of guides selling brownies out the front. They were all kareening around the aisles mindlessly, as if blind, or drunk, or both.

"No, Eddie," I said to myseelf, "they're just old. One day, you will be like that, so be patient and tolerant."

ONE DAY??? how the frack about today then?

..............................................

So I'm sittin' at home, talking to JANET about me VEINS....no really, I feel like Lynn Postlethwaite from D-Gen..."you KNOW how busy I am today, you KNOW I have a letter to post.."

Which is what, In fact, I did do today.

So I hobbled down to the post office and posted off my form to the Australian Electoral Commission to remove me from the roll. I know this is a minor administrative task, probably not worth even thinking about under normal circumstances, but for some reason, I was strangely moved by the gesture. You see, as I lurched around flailing for a balustrade, lightpole, zimmerframe to hold onto, my age and mortality suddenly struck me like a bullet train. Having struggled at the supermarket and the post office during the frenzied pensioner packed daytime rush, I got to thinking that really I should go and see a doctor and put my name down for an MRI to find out what is actually wrong with my back. Then, by the time my name comes up on the NHS waiting list, I'll probaably be old and infirm enough to require surgery, and get whisked right in. When Im 65.

Diet day 3

coffee coffee coffee coffee
2 pieces white toast, honey and marmalade
2 slices of bread- snacking
2 chicken drumsticks, cooked in garlic and soy...mmm
ham sandwich
pear
Beef cassoulet - low fat low gi
mashed potato - a bit naughty
sneaky glass of red wine or 6
LOTS of water
no soft drinks

Pool etiquette

My life can often be compared to any of those mad trippy little Doctor Seuss books. Most of the time I'm the Grinch. Somedays, if Im feeling a little snappy, I'm a bit like 'Fox in Sox". if I've had too much to drink its "Green eggs and Ham" or if I'm feeling a little frisky, try "There's a Wocket in my Pocket!"

However, right now I can be best described as "The cat in the hat" or rather, "The fat in the Back". I recall some blogs back, that I vowed never to end up like Gil Gerard with his pendulous, hanging gardens of back fat. Well, I'm a little embarrassed to say that my desire to not end up like this is failing. Readers, I'm more than halfway down the proverbial Crispy Creme, Chicken Cottage super shute that only Kristie, Britney and Oprah have ever made it home alive from!!!!!!!!! If I continue down this super highway of gluttony, I may end up like the Mother on "What's eating Gilbert Grape" and fall through the floor from my bed onto the TV room of my neighbours in the middle of their saturday afternoon football match (at least they'd offer me a beer...)


What makes this even more tedious than explaining to children that it's dangerous to hold firecrackers whilst they go off, is the fact that my back has fracked up on me again. I swear, I shouldn't have watched the Exorcist - directors cut the other night whilst doing sit ups and really believing that the problem had gone away for ever. Smug little me, I opened up a little window in my soul and in climbed that demon. It's wreaking havok with my bed.


So today, off I go to the pewel to do a few little lappies, you know, loosen up the glutonus maxxxximus, unlock the terror that my lower lumbar has sadly begun to lay a setting at dinner for. Hard enough undressing in public when you can't take off your socks. Worse when you're in a cold miserable English Lido (public pool).

Now the Queen Mother, bless her, is the best of a bad bunch of pools around London. Most pools can be characterised by a sorry clientele of pasty, flabby, middle aged "peoples wot cant add" type. And today weren't no exception.

Growing up in Australia, where swimming pools are more common than soap stars in London Christmas panto, the good fit folk know how to swim, and especially know how to behave whilst they're doing it. This, take note dear English, is called POOL ETIQUETTE, and (stops to put a little Dolly on the gramophone) it goes a little sump'n like this:

POOL ETIQUETTE 101 FOR DUMMIES (most of the people in my pool)

1. Swim in a lane that befits your speed and stroke. The "fast and furious" lane, strangely enough, isn't for slow retarded breaststroking or kickboarding.

2. Swim in an anticlockwise, (or clockwise) direction around the lane, as illustrated on the lane board at the end of the lane when you jump in. If you are indeed of the special variety of human, or you are just a bit dim, then ask for assistance before you launch into your recreation of the sinking of the Titanic.

3. When you get to the end of a lane and there are 12 people right behind you because you're swimming like a Dugong, stop and let these people pass. A tap on the foot doesn't mean "would you like to go for a shag in the loos with no lubricant?"

More on that later.

Anyhoo, from today onwards, I'm going to declare my consumption for all to see. It's going to be the only way I know how to diet. Through shame and humiliation. Thanks for the tips, Bridgit.

Diet day one:

Coffee
Coffee
Ham and eggs Bloomer from Pret
Apple
Pasta with prawn sauce (creme based) YUM - thanks Fiona!
Low fat lemon Mousse dessert.
Lots of water
A vodka and Orangina with dinner - Classy.

America's nect top Model is on now, who will Tyra cut from the contest tonight?
xx

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...

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.

Salad

I'm putting on weight.

Its hard to believe, given my rigorous schedule of being utterly fabulous and working as a Landscape Architect to the stars. But lets turn to camera two with a serious face and consider its real implications. Its a death knoll in this fabulously fickle gay old town. And a move that could see me totally alienated from my fabulously glittering A-list social clique of Aussie expats and my cat (bitchy lot). So I've decided to do something about it.

A good friend once said to me that I was obsessed with my weight. Well, honey, yes I might be, but look at you. You're a 6ft 2 Amazon supermodel who is the only person I have ever known who would turn heads at 9 months pregnant. And obviously you isn't no gay man, so lets not judge Mrs Pussy please. Its part of mine and every man who owned a Deee-lite album's genes to be obsessed with our centre of gravity. And every self respecting Friend of Liza will be nodding in total unflubbering agreement.

I've been on diets before, and I'm not even going to muse on what sort of rubbish calorie free flavour free celery rich cabbage encrusted crock of shit diet I might have gotten sucked into if it weren't for my trusty favourite sandwich shoppe on the corner. So, there, every day, made especially fresh for me (despite me getting it off a semi cooled shelf totally exposed to the busy street) I may purchase a lovely bread free sandwich; thoroughly enjoyable, despite the fact that it is really just salad.

Yesterday, this was, mind you, just after I had been sweating my guts out at the gym (well, alright, I did 10 minutes on the runner whilst I sang the latest Alcazar album out loud). And what's the number one priority for all aspiring walnuts to do, once we have pumped our little muscles in the gymnasium? Well, ingest at least half a buffalo in protein, naturally. Or at least a protein shake or bar would help.

I swear, when the president of Gaytopia decrees that carbs are no longer allowed, and that we're only supposed to eat salad and buffalo, he should fnerking well tell all respectable scoff houses, supermarkets, noodle houses, deli's and Zara boutiques. I went into Marks and Spencer food and they had a whole aisle of chips and bread, half the shop was dedicated to some form of pasta I had never even heard of, and a whole WALL OF CHOCOLATE PUDDING, but NOTHING with any quick to ingest protein.

I suppose that's good if you're the other fat lady. Which in a very short time, I very well may be.

Ok ok so cheesy picture of myself, just wanted to get it in there for my profile, and I had to publish it.
I'll see if I can take it off without losing it out ofmy profile. Thanks Bretty for showing me how, you are an excellent blog tutor.
x