For a start, I do like a bit of bitching - London bitching that is. London bitching is the kind where you don't really give a shit about the anonymous London folk that you encounter day by day, so this gives you carte blanche to be as evil about the rest of mankind as you like. And, though I totally like my darling compadres at the gay bar - one in particular who I adore (platonically) it does pass them by a little.
I also love to mime to my ipod at the gym - it makes half an hour on the cross trainer feel like a four minute strut in the tight stilettos of one Cheryl Cole. And unfortunately, not many straight men can take me mouthing the entire score of Native New Yorker. Especially when I add additional mimicking for the five session singers' multiple part harmonies AND when I throw in the trembling lip on the money notes, so I'm used to being frowned at there as well. However I'm not giving it up - its the only glamour I'm allowed nowadays and it assists me in pumping those 22 kgs.
My first gym, whilst unemployed, was a total shit hole. But, on the plus side, it was full of cocky young men strolling about with their tits hanging out of tight fitting wrestling singlets so I wasn't complaining. I have now enrolled myself in a fitness chain since I am earning, yes friends! I have found work!! I won't tell you where it is or what I am doing because I'm not allowed to but I will just say that on my first day, I fell off a ladder.
And we're not talking a minor wobble on the bottom rung: I went down like a total sack of the proverbial shit. And what is one's immediate reaction to taking a monumental tumble? You instantly stand, bleeding from the ears, brushing the carpet of lint from your front and straightening your cracked glasses. You then continue to plead with your snickering colleague: "Honestly, I'm fine!"
NOT a great impression to make on your first day of doing something totally new.
NOT a great impression to make on your first day of doing something totally new.
Next up is the talking to myself whilst shopping. I've never been able to stifle it I'm afraid. Even in London, I was walking around American Apparel; scoffing in the direction of the uber cool till staff "£35 for gold lame leggings! Good luck trying to make a business out of that one!".
Nowadays (because I've yet to receive my first pay cheque) I'm more used to grabbing jars in Lidl and blurting out "Fuck; tuppence haypenny for a jar of peanut butter. How do more people not know about this!?!"
That said, shopping for mens clothes in this particular town is absolutely appalling. The only thing you can buy is a certain brand. I'm not going to say the brand, but everyone here wears it: EVERYONE. Its the hoodies walking towards you down the road, its donning the bosoms of those behind the temping agency desks. I wouldn't be surprised if, when I jump into bed with my first Gloucestershire conquest, it'll be etched across the rubber sheath!
That said, shopping for mens clothes in this particular town is absolutely appalling. The only thing you can buy is a certain brand. I'm not going to say the brand, but everyone here wears it: EVERYONE. Its the hoodies walking towards you down the road, its donning the bosoms of those behind the temping agency desks. I wouldn't be surprised if, when I jump into bed with my first Gloucestershire conquest, it'll be etched across the rubber sheath!
Which brings me nicely onto the date. Well the catch (see below) whom I met in a very respectable bar a couple of streets over.
Lets just say his only ambition was to stay on benefits. And he was only too happy to proudly show me what was etched across the top of his arm: a full colour tattoo of his favourite cryptid. He said it was a dragon, I thought it was Barney the purple dinosaur. We shan't be going on date number two, though he has already suggested a venue. Get Hagrid to take you there, mate!
And may I just relay a delightful encounter in Iceland that I had on New Years Eve? Standing in line to get a few perishables, a semi decent bit of tail was in front of me racking up the frozen chicken portions. As he departed, the buxom, sparsely toothed cashier threw to her mate halfway down the queue: "Oh, he was well fit"
"Really?" spoke she.
"Oh yerrrr, real noice oise (nice eyes)"
"Yeah, I spose he was fit"
"He was"
To which I replied: "Yeah, he was".
Cue shrieks of laughter from my two friends who had obviously never encountered such blatant homosexuality; least of all in the queue at Iceland. The cashier then broke the party atmosphere by turning to me, deadly serious and snarling with teeth bared like a rabid Doberman: "Well, keep yer 'ands off. Eees moine!"
Classic!
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