Strike, you're out

Perhaps yesterday was an omen. 'Don't go on the tube' it warned 'your life will be irreversibly ruined'... I'm sure I checked my horoscope on facebook this week and there was no mention of the tube strike, nor did it sage on the mega pain in the arse everyone who commutes in London will no doubt be enduring right now.

I wonder whether its worth actually going back over the last few days of horoscopes and seeing if at any time. any of these soothsayers soothed how fucked off we're all likely to be by the end of this week.

I read somewhere this afternoon that we could be looking at this lasting a couple of weeks. And what's friggen Ken doing about it? hmmm? The mayors office is strangely quiet for a change.

Seriously though, I would sack the lot of them, these tfl bunch. There are enough willing workers in London and the Brits sadly are a lazy mob. In fact I wouldn't mind paying the ninety pounds my monthly ticket cost me if I knew that the person who was driving me at a million miles an hour through to bowels of this great city actually enjoyed his job as much as I loved mine.

So now we're all catching the bus home. All together, all at the same time.

Really, there is only one decent method of travel in London, and it's called the Black cab.

The shitty week begins...

The shitty week begins.

So life goes on huh? I guess it does. Not content with having to work on Sunday, today I seem to be unnaturally anxious about my job, my life, my relationship, and increasingly, my sanity.

After a lovely afternoon where we had a couple of drinks at the absolut ice bar (yes, complete with thermal ponchos, mittens and glasses made of frozen water in which a caccophony of crisp cocktails spat and sizzled) and a brief dance along the masala mile that had transformed Regents street, we found ourselves yet again languishing beer in hand outside the sticky windows of Rupert Street in Soho.

My natural instinct in these situations is to be completely obsessed by the passing trade, after drinking a skinful, talking and gesticulating wildly to anyone and everyone who will listen, about a myriad of topics that generally revolve around me. I think this instinct comes from years of drunken laneway recovery parties in Sydney, with the divine Miss H by my side, conducting vox pops and stealing peoples party whistles and glow sticks, covertly disposing of them in the name of all things good and decent. There should be a safety warning in all bars and clubs around the world regarding serving me beer.

So back to yesterday, and on this particularly heady afternoon full of beer, yumcha and vodka, I launched myself upon the unsuspecting crowd of like minded Sunday revellers hovering expectantly like hungry bees around the open doors of the soho honeypots.

What I didn't expect was to run into a lovely couple whom we had befriended over a year ago in Montreal whilst attending the cities gay pride parade. We had spent many fun hours with these lovely boys in various bars around Montreal during our two week holiday there, and seeing them on the street in London was such a treat, even though it felt like no time had passed at all.

'Right' says me 'I think it was my shout' ....

I so wish this morning was as delightful.

Awakened to the tickles and purrs of the little Mrs Pussy Tummycurtins, After the busiest sleep imaginable, my lateness in getting out the door was soon after rewarded by a hideously crowded tube where in a last ditch attempt to jump between carriages to get a seat, I found myself quite embarrassingly tripping over the threshold onto the platforms as the doors slammed shut and the train breezed off without me on it. I swear someone laughed and waved to me too. Bitch.

All a twitter

It's early morning in old London town and I seem to be awake.

It's not because of the heavy meal I ate last night in celebration of the fella and I passing over into our 9th year together, nor is it about the bottle of Piper that we drank.

NO its because it's now summer, and with the lovely summer weather that comes along in London, comes along a rather annoying community of twittering birds that live outside our window.

I don't mind wildlife, no, I have been to many discos and felt like I was exploring the inner reaches of the Amazon basin, or even the outer rim of the rift valley, most likely the outer planets from Revenge of the Sith. But really, the thing is, in summer time here, it gets light now at about 3.30am. And there is only one place I like exploring at that hour.

So the birds tend to get up at about 3.00am and start hollering around the back garden like a bunch of chavs on holiday. I can just imagine their conversations now: (in bird)

"Oi Sharon, get us another beer would ja?"

"Get your own beer you lazy bastard. OI DARREN! GETCHA HEAD OUT OF THAT BIN."

Think of us, sleep deprived as we muddle through a summer of no air con and no cool drinks and 100 million tourists with those pesky bags on wheels.

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....

What are friends for?

I don't think anyone has been as shocked as me at the difficulty I seem to be having here in London in making new friends.

Far from this being a total 'termsofendearment' style misery fest, no, I think its important for me to express my frustration at the few things that have made me the pshychotic mess that I seem to have become. And because all you loving caring friends that I do have in Cyber Space care so much about me, well, you're going to have to endure a little bit of cyber therapy.

So here goes.

1. I work too hard, and I'm totally terrified that they're going to soon discover that I havn't got a clue what I'm doing.

This occupies way too much of my energy, which, when I do get the chance to socialise, I find myself not particularly engaged in anything or anyone.

2. I miss my friends in Australia too much - they're a hard act to follow, and at my age, I figure, what's the use anyway?

3. I have tried to make friends on Gaydar, much to the fella's amusement and ridicule, and although I have made inroads into some lovely peoples lives, these relationships are still very infant, and I'm acutely aware that we met, well, on gaydar.

4. The fella is having a great time and making new friends, socialising having quiet dinners with new friends without me etc...and there's nothing worse than being miserable for a reason that the nearest person to you doesn't really understand.

5. I drink too much, which, on top of all this shit doesn't make anything any better.

All I know, Is I'm pretty miserable right now, which i dont think even my trip to the USA next week will fix.

SO I'm thinking of taking myself off to the shrink for some lessons in social behaviour 101. Who knows, perhaps I might come away with some pretty pink pills.

When is a blog, not a blog?

When I'm just too damned knackered to have anything to say.

I'm sorry, I have been working terribly long days of late, and my ouput has been squirrelled into landscaping.

I mean christ, even the Beatles released an album last year!

Although, it is spring, and right now, there is a lot of Landscaping to do....

Need a fresh look?

A few months ago I went on some demented rant about how much money I was spending on clothes. Not that I'm regretting spending the equivalent of a small fortune of some former eastern republic on Spanish designed pret a porter, not for one minute.

It's just that, I kind of forgot to get myself a nice new coat. And now that it's getting chillier than Jade Goody's BB exit, or Danielle Lloyd's telephone for that matter, I'm left in a kind of strange position where I am desperately looking around for a particular item of clothing, and I can't, for the life of me, find it.

You would think, wouldn't you, in the city that so spectacularly celebrates the coming of the frost, that there would be an abundance of well priced, qualiity merchandise designed to keep snowflakes off the Armani, whilst decreeing to the world that the wearer has almost enough style to teach those Wags a little thing or two.

But no, I just cant find what i'm looking for.

I have tried Selfridges, every big chain including Zara, even spent a good couple of hours in every boutique in the Marais in Gay old Paris on the weekend. Even they don't make coats any more apparently.

So last night I buried my hatchet of hatred against Harvey Nichols and everything Knightsbridge and took a stroll through the overpriced, over cologned and uber rude collonnades of the most overrated shopping strip on the planet.

OK, so I just don't like Havey Nicks, the ceilings are too low. And the fact that every pooflette you'd find at GAY on a thursday night works there and thinks that their shit dont stink because they work there, just makes me see red and pink spots.

And then they didn't even have any coats either. So they suck double.

Then I went into Zara, which, as far as Zara stores go, is a pretty good one. The whole first and second floors are the womens lable, and HARK! racks racks and racks and racks of funky winter coats.

Up on the third floor however, the marvellous groovy wintercoat song went a little off key. One floor of men's label, sharing half the space with the Zara CASA and not a SINGLE coat anywhere. I actually walked around the floor 3 times, just in case my contact lenses weren't working for some reason leaving me with a white out where that fawn coloured wool coat was meant to hang, but I just kept bumping into the glass display and knocking wicker candle holders onto the floor (bad idea anyways..)

Strike two.

So then there was Harrod's. (Dramatic Pause) I HATE HARROD'S even MORE than I hate HN's. It's always CHOCKER BLOCK packed full of ageing women with hundreds of bags wandering aimlessly through halls that have absolultely NO logic as to what they're selling in them, thereby confusing the old ducks even more.

It's like Mr Al Fayid has just organised the whole store alphabetically, or around the shrine to Diana or something. I dont know. Who can explain how you can go from the Lanvin counter to the Lamb butcher in six steps? And there's this incipid stench of women's perfulme that permeates into everything. I smelled of it for hours afterwards, even after I had showered in Domestos. Seriously.. I woke up this morning, and when i went for my morning toilette, it smelled like Chanel no 5.

Anyhow, once I found menswear after having walked all over the ground, first and second floors, I actually DID find the coat that i wanted.

It was £800.

FUCK.

A treat

Just before christmas, we got online after a few woines, and oredered some Liam Show merchandise. Nothing too OTT, but a nice tshirt each, and a smart pair of undies to add to the collection.
So imagine to my disappointment that the little package from LA hadn't arrived by the time santa had shoved his fat arse back up the chimblie. Nor had it arrived by my birthday some 5 days after.

Nor by new years

Nor a week later.

Nor a week later.

Recently, I have been wondering what Her Majesty the Queen thinks about the phrase "royal mail" with her crown on it. This week I received a note from HM's postal service that my parcel had arrived and was awaiting collection from the post office. A lovely chirpy little card declairing that I had to pay ANOTHER £10.61p for customs clearance charge, which contained a £1.00 postal handling fee, and a mere week to heinie my heinie up to the mail centre. OH KAY you bastards. So we all know the postal service sucks, but I just couldn't believe that I had to collect the item myself, and still pay the exhorbitant fee. What bastards.

The stress of all this complaining is giving me wrinkles.

"Yeah, but it's a great pool but..."

I think one of the best things about making a long list of new years resolutions, is that they can be broken. Well, OK so I have crumbled already. On the way home from the pub last night I had a piece of chicken. I couldn't help it.

I didn't smoke however, which I claiming as a small victory.

You see, I am absolutely resolute that this year, I will be healthier, shed some weight, and look after my back. Smoking really isn't in this happy little house on the prairie scenario.

So I'm also swimming again too, which is great. I'm really enjoying it again, and I may even compete again this year. Ooh Ryan has alerted me to a meet in Vienna in February, which could be fun, but I'm not sure I'll be ready by then.

However, going to the Queen Mother pool this week, I was quite shocked to discover at the counter that the price had risen to £4.55 for a casual swim. For those of you in Australia, that translates to over $10 to swim in an indoor 25m pool. I mean, WHAT?

When I shreaked "WHAT?" at being asked to hand over this small fortune, this voice from behind the other end of the counter said in a thick Aus accent "yeah, but its a great pool but.."

Honey, first, I didn't ask you. Second, you and I BOTH know it ain't a great pool, but, so FUCK OFF.

Someone at work this week was grizzling that England isn't good at any sport.

Hm. I wonder why.

Things that should be forbidden, Part 2

Following my trip to Dublin, I have been able to compile this whole list from my 2.5 hours in the airport waiting for my Ryanair flight home. Read on, you will be amazed, you may laugh, you may cry...

1. His and Her matching fleecy print jersy, with letters on them like, FUBU or Armani, or Duffer. Because you look like one. FORBIDDEN!
2. Long, shoulder blade length blowdried hair, hair pulled into a top tail and fanned out around the shoulders on a redhaired MAN with MATCHING COLONEL SANDERS GOATEE. If you do need to look like Liam Neeson in Star Wars, wear a cloak and hood, not a vinyl jacket with RED BULL all over it. FORBIDDEN!
3. Fat short pushy women walking and pushing whilst they text or speak on the phone. One such actually rolled her eyes angrily at ME after bashing into me whilst she was texting. FORBIDDEN!!! (AND FUCK YOU BETCH!)
4. McDonalds - I refer to having paid 6.40 Euro for a large big mac meal, only to open my bag to find the large chip box only half full, and my large Fanta only 2/3 filled. FORBIDDEN EVER AGAIN.
5. Stag and hen nights abroad...oooohhhhhh *FORBIDDEN*
6. People who eat noisily. I don't want to hear you masticating thanks very much. VERBOTEN!!
7. Getting drunk in the airport lounge then not turning up to your plane after you have checked in, leaving everyone sitting on the tarmac whilst they unload your bags. ARSE HOLES. FORBIDDEN!
8. Not closing the door when you're in a toilet cubicle, and then not flushing the toilet when you leave. FILTHY FUCKING PIG.
9. Warm beer FORBIDDEN
10. Airport check in desks TOTALLY FORBIDDEN (get this) now RYANAIR bless, do internet check in, thereby removing the need to even approach the check in counter with the wailing children and brain dead morons who obviously havn't travelled before, and need to repack their bags at the counter because they didn't realise you couldn't take fireworks and guns and industrial poisons in your bags.

I do like to be able to travel cheaply around. But the advent of the cheap airline has obviously signaled the end to flying being a glamorous way to travel. Now, I wouldn't mind from time to time paying a little more and being able to fly from, say, Heathrow terminal 2, where good looking, well heeled Euro stars swan elegantly from Designer Boutiques to Jewellery Merchant, mildly sipping on their latte's or their flute of Crystal as they wait to board. There are no Bugger Kings, MacClown or Fried Colonel in THIS terminal. No siree. It's duty free style all year round.

But alas, sometimes one does need to muck in and lend a hand to keeping the cheap n'nasties up in the sky. Next time I'm travelling on a no reserveed seating flight, I'm going to remember to check online, go straight to the gate and get ON the plane first and off the plane first, all the while a vision of Sophia Loren or Audrey Hepburn.

Now THATS glamour.

Come on, have a duvet day.

So today I went back to work, still feeling shithouse, screaming in pain with this rubbish spine o mine. Wish I could have had another duvet day, but I have a serious career, responsibilites, and people to yell at.

So I'm tired, and Im going to bed. I'm not even going to stay up for Kath and Kim, or Gray's Anatomy. Because I've been bad, and eaten too much rubbish today, and this is a really boring post anyway, so don't read it if you dont want to..

Diet day 4

OK today I was bad.

i had:
coffee
cornflakes and milk
work provided sanwiches from pret
crisps with said sandwiches
3 chocolate chip biscuits
3 triangles of toblerone
Leftover caasseerole and rice, vegetables
a peanut butter sandwich
a cherry ripe.


OOOH speaking of Cherry Ripe, if anyone in Australia is reading this and REALLY loves me, please send me cherry ripes. I just ate my last one.

WAAAAAAAAAAAA!

xx

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

The Mancunian Way

Sometimes mornings can just be so fracking cruel. I mean, what the holy ghost is 6.00am about? huh? whose bright idea was 6.00am?

This morning I peeled myself out of my cosy nest in the dark because I had an express train to Manchester. You see, I'm working on a rather exciting development up there, about which I am not at liberty to reveal to my masses of devout readers, so maybe in a few years time when my fame as a blogger spreads far and wide accross the English speaking world, I might post a little picture of it for you to go, oooooooo ....

Anyhoo, so I'm on the 8.04 train to Manchester, with my Boss. The BOSS MAN. Who is actually a lovely sweet man, funny as a circus of blind carnies, and really interesting, good looking and full of the best ideas ever to be conceived....

But really, no matter how wonderful your Boss is, they're still your Boss, and it's always a little difficult to be yourself in these situations, without them discovering that your an absolute charlatan - a fraud just waiting to be found out.

The other night at the GAYBAR we met ths most foul mouthed excuse for a pooflet, who insisted that not only did the BF's hair resemble a helmet then proceded to call him HOFF (a name only I'M allowed to call him), but actually to my face, said that I was BORING... yes, that was the word for it. BORING. I've been called many things in the past...oh don't even start on that, but never boring. At least I'm not a nasty BITCH!

You see, he spent the whole evening basically ridiculing us, firstly calling us Kiwis (shudder), then making comments about our clothes, our hairstyles, our work. And the sad thing was he actually believed he was being witty. Which he may have been if he resembled Brad Pitt or Jake, rather than Julian Clary. As soon as I retaliated with a comment about him not having much of a chin, his demeanour soured and the bitch turned like the proverbial death adder. HISSSSS. Love, if you dish it, then you take it.

So I'm on this train, with my Boss, trying to make idle chit chat about stuff'n'that and I think to myself, "am I boring?" Oh my GOD is it TRUE?

You see I think to be boring is rather like being plain. No-one likes plain people. I have often joked with friends about walking up to strange people and saying very smilingly and patronisingly: "oooh, my, aren't YOU plain...?"

Ok, so maybe I'M the BITCH.

...................................--------------------.................................

Diet Day 2:
Coffee
Coffee
Porridge
Beef Lasagne
broccoli and haricot salad
Sauted Salmon fillet and salad and coleslaw
2 glasses of a perky Australian Semillion Cardon-nay
Low fat lemon mousse dessert.

Oh lord, can I have fried chicken again now?

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

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.

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.

Snakes on a Tube

Ok, is it me or is the whole "Snakes on a plane" thing just the most ridiculous concept or what? It just goes to show how Hollywood hype can infect every sane thought you ever had, making you believe that even Gwynneth Paltrow might have an interesting opinion and it might be a nice idea to go visit the movie house and part with 12 quids to see some period rubbish with her in it only to realize that the best screen moment she ever had was when her dismembered head appeared in 12 monkeys. or was it seven? or did I ever bother to even see.. whatever....

But enough of that malarky.

What I really wanted to muse on this fine Saturday evening, whilst my chicken is a roastin' (no cottage, I think I have finally managed to give that one up) and the beans (bunnies) are a boilin', is about what ticks me off when I catch the tube.

Now having left Melbourne but a mere 2.5 months ago, gloriously putting crap public transport and a totally f***ed up banking system behind me, I have been generally impressed with the tube experience, being thrust down a dark hole squashed up next to total strangers, frotting hotly in their Zara work combo's.

So what the sweet fark is it about Victoria station? This is my place of work and every day I must sidestep every goddamned special with their cheap luggage with wheels as they amble towards the Gatwick express counter in a scene reminiscent of dawn of the dead.

The other day, I was dawdling my way to work, my iPod firmly in my ears iBlocking the iDin, and, upon arriving at said station of hell, Duran Duran's Hungry Like the Wolf announced itself with that characteristic little "ha ha!" Bless, it was just the right thing at just the right time to lift my mood. I even thought about scratching some slowpoke tourist across the face for the hell of it. But I wouldn't want to ruin my new manicure, would I?

Thank you Duran Duran, I will always love you the most.

Now why am I sitting here on a Saturday night?

Well, its very hot in London, and I'm swealtering. Can you believe there is no airconditioning and little to no refrigeration. Daddy is very hot, and cant even keep his diet cherry coke cool. Daddy often complains about having a headache but it might be because of the warm beer. But it also might be about the 10 hundred million people all trying to catch the tube at once.

Auntie Chantal said I was a whinger and I sould be more appreciative of my opportunity to experience new cultures and lifestyles. Well I am settled in now, and even venturing out side in the night time to play with the squirrels.

Daddy's are off to Canada on Monday. Auntie Fiona will look after me and keep me fed and watered whilst those two dirty skanks get up to no good at the games.

prrrrrr

xx