A Blast From The Past...

... happened while I was sitting in the kitchen just now, listening to the Heart Wrenching Station known as Heart Wahn Oh Sicks... point... Toooh

Apologies for not posting for a few days, then again I'm not sure that many people are interested in a whinging boy posting random things of what has happened in the past 24 hours.

So, after my perrenial vow that I will Stop Drinking and Give Up Smoking I found myself in the kitchen pouring myself the dregs of some red wine, more drinkable and less caustic than the 2 for £5 that we normally guzzle with Great Gusto purchased from the wonderful Costcutters that we inhabit. Well, to be honest, it was £4.99 for ONE bottle, so the quality was pretty much ensured.

Ironically, after reading a magazine article stating that Indie is the New Black, and is replacing the original Black Music championed by our fellow human-kind over the pond. As a result I've pulled out all my black garments and black accessories (with the Union Jack emblzoned across all and sundry) and decided that the next visit to Boots will consist of Black Eyeliner, Black Liquid Eyeliner, Black Nail Polish and Black Hair Dye. Well, the latter is a bit of a luxury since my hair is almost black anyway and the last time (two weeks ago) I dyed my hair Blue Black has ended up just Black, with most of the Blue deposited on my lovely neutral coloured bed linen (I hate Beige)

So, while reading said article, mister 'Fiddy Sense' came on with some (excuse the lingo) Bird warbling in the background, I tried to twiddle the dial on the radio to come up with something a bit more decipherable. Cue, Karen White (who is incidentaly Black) singing Superwoman...

I last heard this song when I was 8 years old. Some woman singing that she'd laid out breakfast on the table but the eggs weren't quite right because some cunt of a boyfriend was ovi-intolerant made me feel upset. Not quite for the same reasons that she was crying about, but more so that I was a Growing Boy and at any time of day wanted any excuse to stuff my face, and given that I was plucked from the land that served Fries and Burgers and Bacon and Eggs and shipped to a land of Noodles and Rice and Rice and More Rice (half of which I had to pick off the sodding shag-pile after I'd deliberately-discretely chucked it on the floor) I was gagging from some Over-Easy Eggs (my mum later told me this is where Naughty Girls came from).

Anyway, I went to the theatre tonight to watch an abolute Gay Classic: Beautiful Thing. My Aussie Girl Friend came along in place of other half who was suffering from Throat Disease (which is anything pertaining to the throat). I had to give a quick 411 about the storyline to Aussie GF, and in true haiku style:

Council of South London,
Grey from Toil and Sweat...
Schoolboys Turn Gay.

The thing is, I never had a problem with sexuality. For ages I thought that everyone else was making a big Hoo-Hah over something that was quite simple. Boys like Girls. Boys like Boys. Girls like Boys. Girls like Girls. and Boy-Girls et cetera.... I never had a problem.

For those who are not quite au fait with it, mostly there is a transitional period of Angst and Denial and then coming to terms that mainly One is Quite Straight, and that they fancy Members of the Opposite Sex. The remainder like Same Sex Mates and carry on Angsting and Denying all manner of emotions. Then, there are some of us just 'happened' to be born Out and Proud, and this wonderful story charters the trials and tribulations of two lovely boys coming out at the tender age of 15/16 (it's legal now). Set on a Council Estate. With a Chav Mum. And a fabulous Fag-Hag who (thinks she) is the incarnation of Mama Cass.

It was brilliant.

Well. It is now the Chinese new Year Of The Dog. The parental unit forgot to ring me back after I'd left a long rambling message wishing them a Happy New Year and lots of Prosperity and Wealth and the rest. But to be fair, it was at 3 a.m. GMT and by that time they were well into the following day. This morning my grandparents rang me saying Happy Birthday and I had to remind them that it was the New Year, not my birthday.

But that's what happens when you come from a jumbled-up background, of parents that together have 4 different heritages between them.

Well, any excuse for a drink-up really, isn't there?

Once Again...

... I have drifted from the Blog.

Not so much for my lack of trying, but since I finished work on Friday things have been so hectic. I thought that I'd have a load of time to do all the things that I want to do as well as those that I need to. So after the requisite drinks at work and the saying farewells et al, I found myself spirited onto another party then I had to go home and pack for the weekend in Birmingham.

The trip 'oop norf' was really quite fun. Imagine 4 gay men in a car, bombing up the M40 singing along to Madonna's new album (well, not much singing really) and then making a few call-of-nature stops and it was a right laugh. After the sights (lots of Lesbians) and sounds (disco music) we all got back into London the following day under the fug of a hangover which had to be remedied with lager and more cigarettes.

Monday came and passed in a daze, primarily from Food Poisoning that was induced by a Very Smart Choice of having seafood colcannon in an Irish pub, in Mosely, in Birmingham. Not a bad part of town, but under the glare of the harsh light and the throb of a hangover, it looked grey and dull and quite menacing with boarded up windows and slicks of vomit and dog-shit on the side walks. Not to unlike the less salubrious parts of Camden, mind.

Anyway, I've done all my laundry, colour coded my wardrobe, paired my socks and Joined the Gym. As a result my mind is all tired from the colour-coordination and muscles aching from the gym. And I have no energy to do anything else...

Oh, and I have 2 essays due in next week.

I Need Motivation...

I'm Off To See...

... my friend in Birmingham.

And my friend promised me if I was very very good I might get to see the Cadbury's World Of Chocolate.

Not that I like the stuff...

Ooh, and I might get to see the Floozie in the Jacuzzi as Debbie so lovingly calls it...

Report back tomorrow...

I Am Amazingly Perfect...

... or so I think I am.

Pigeonholing has always been a sore subject that battles internally in my mind. Sometimes I say something and catch myself off guard and think to myself: Monkey, you're so bloody bigoted. This mainly applies to the following: service, service, service and service.

For example: Call Centre Chav. I am not your 'mate', I don't want to be your 'mate', and while you're incompetantly tapping away awaiting the inevitable 'computer says no...' to me, please do not ask me how my day is or what I plan to do with my weekend. As it is I am already driven to paranoia by the stern voice at the introduction to your numerous services stating that pressing any key will give you another multitude of options that all lead to the same option of either hanging up and trying again or to dial between the hours of 4am and 4.05am, and the other omnious statement that ALL CALLS ARE MONITORED for SECURITY AND TRAINING PURPOSES... What security? Where is the security if I say my password and someone taps in and then transfers all my assets (or liabilities in this case) to Nigeria?

Then there is the Shop Assistant who is in training. It seems that there is a perpetual training cycle that always occupies 4 out of 5 of the checkout counters at rush hour, and who can never work out the difference between weighing Limes and Lemons.

Anyway, I think you get the idea.

Recently I've been in a bit of a contemplative mood. As a result, Other Half thinks I am withdrawn and uncommunicative and generally being a bit of A Cold Bastard.

I met Bastard Ex a few days ago. Nothing going really, just utilised the services that he's running, exchanged pleasantries and left after spending most of the self-issued vouchers that I was presented over Christmas. One thing that I did pick up in the course of the conversation was that Bastard Ex was all chirpy and excited in telling me the New Boy that he has met. I would have been happy for him if not for the fact that he was already seeing someone and the one line that really made me see through him and place him firmly in the Bastard, Confused, Selfish and Prick pigeonholes was this: Oh I really like so and so but I'll keep Brazillian Bambino on the side Just In Case.

Which then led me to question him about our past relationship where everything was denied, but some people are so transparent that their lies are like those told by children.

Some months ago Other Half was invited to the tropical island of Borneo to spend a few days with my family. While this was earlier in the relationship and Other Half was excited in meeting the 'in-laws' (pigeonhole: Desperate) and I was mentally chewing my fingers to bits (pigeonhole: Alarmed and Nervous), things went as well as could be until it was decided that we would have a barbeque.

Provisions bought, Mum, sisters and myself set about the preparation of the bits and pieces and Other Half was set the task of lighting the barbeque. One and a half hours later I went to check on the progress of the Burning Charcoals but they were still Charcoals with no sign of Burning going on. At this stage the guests were due to arrive in 30 mins and so I lost my rag with Other Half and he stormed off to have a shower while maintaining a happy smiley grin so as to dissuade anyone else that we were having a Tiff. Grumbling, I proceeded to light the barbeque and after a few minutes it started burning.

I went back into the kitchen and my mum sidled up to me and asked me if I had told my 'friend' off. I sulked and said a curt 'no' to which she said to me, 'Darling, you have to remember that not everyone is as Anally Efficient as you are'...

In retelling this story about a month or so later over lunch, I accidentally paraphrased Dear Old Mother and instead of 'Anally Efficient' I was elevated to being 'Amazingly Perfect'... I'm still bearing the brunt of the jokes.

My own pigeonhole?

Arrogant, Impatient and Bossy

Oh, and Deluded...

And Then There Was...

... a whole chunk of time that I've been sat here wasting my time because the sodding internet in the office is down.

Honestly, I don't know how I get through the day if the net crashes. I keep clicking on the 'send/receive' button, hoping that the long gossipy email that I have just replied to is already assimilated in binary pieces and at this moment is whizzing across my head into the laptop of my correspondent where she is awaiting my cynical and oh so bitchy response to what we both think of mutual friends and their current phase of bickering.

Gone are the days of gossiping only over tea/coffee/telephone/booze but since the advent of the internet gossip has become more rife.

tick...tick...tick...tick...tick...

Sorry but we are unable to locate your mail server at this moment. Please contact your network administrator as there may be a fault.

SOD SOD SOD this... I need to know. I pick up the phone when I hear a gentle 'beep'. I look around my desk and see my mobile phone, staring solemnly at me, screen lit up with what may be a message. My face lights up...

There is 1 unread text message...

'so basically on the bus blah blah blah and then she yak yak yak............btw is your email down? just bounced back so txt'ing you instead. tb. G '

I love the fact that O2 were so predictable in offering me 1000 free SMS a month.

I went shopping the other day (window) and went absolutely gaga over a bag. Well, it was more like a satchel. Then I saw the price. And I balked.

Then I saw the brand. And I bawled.

Resolution number 7: Book appointment with Dr Francesco. Head needs examining as am beginning to fancy Chav labels.

I think my Essex roots are showing through. Must get a touch up this weekend. Hampstead, here I come...

Dim Sum...

... literally means 'point heart' in Chinese.

However I think this particular species of dim sum is cross-eyed and instead of 'pointing' at my heart to make me all satisfied with the little parcels of deliciousness as advertised, it has inadvertently pointed at my stomach and have turned out to be be little parcels of malice.

My stomach hurts and I'm steadfastly going to stick to blaming the food.

Or it could have been something to do with the half finished bottle of gin on the kitchen table...

Oh My Goodness, I'm turning into my mother...

My Laptop...

... is in the Computer Clinic.

It/He/She will return tomorrow...

My goodness. I have a storm to tell...

My Head...

... is throbbing like a tribal sacrificial drum roll.

Last night was Small Flatmate's 21st birthday party, and like all 21 year olds the aim was to get drunk. And we did. Splendidly.

Well, I did anyway...

Finger sitll hurts, so typing slowly.

Got some money so am going to buy a new stereo. Am planning to be Remarkably Middle Class and set stereo to wake me up to the dull drones of Radio Four or the more relaxing Classic FM.

Term starts tomorrow, and to no rhyme or reason I am taking a course that no one else is. Apart from French, I am doing Embryonic and Foetal Pathology...

I must have had devlopmental problems that led to masochism or my mum dropped me on the head when I was small.

Deliberately.

Exams...

...are so bloody tedious.

I went to sit a Graduate Entry Medical Exam yesterday and the itinerary that we were provided with was executed to military precision. That meant from 8 am we queued and started the exams all the way through to 5 pm with a break for lunch in between. 8 solid hours of pure cerebral action. Go me.

So I was really tired because I didn't sleep too well the night before. I suffer from insomnia and most days get between 3-4 hours uninterrupted sleep at a push. And after that time my senses switch on full blast, especially my sense of hearing/sound. The tiniest click i enough to sit bolt upright and its quite annoying when you're lying there thinking of nice, uninterrupted, blissful rest.

This morning yielded the same neanderthal hunter-gatherer grunts at 7 am. I do not begrudge people waking at 7 am on a Saturday morning but I do fucking hate it when they decide to wake everyone else up along with them. Being from the Stone Ages Groog downstairs used his fossilised mobile bone to ring his friend Grawp and proceeded to stand in his courtyard just below my window and conducted the most neanderthalistic, chavvy conversation one could not wish to hear. I'll spare you the details but I do not understand why certain modes of conversation have to have the words 'fuck', 'cunt', 'like', 'yeah', right' and 'innit' interjected in between every other word. Example:

'Yeah mate that fucking cow innit yeah, she like, innit right, took the fucking keys yeah, and that cunt fucking left yeah, the fucking door fucking locked.'

One can only expect that if they get to essay writing stage those words will bulk up the material and bring the word count to the desired fucking number of fucking words, innit?

I've injured my left hand so its a fairly short post.

I'll type more when the paper-cuts have healed.

Once Upon A Time...

... it was extremely easy to fall asleep and stay asleep.

Now as I am growing older I find that sleep is becoming one of those illusive things that just is so bloody difficult to grasp hold of, and as a result I am ratty and tired and have spots appearing all over the shop.

Yesterday I had a pretty lazy day. I was lazing in bed contemplating the nice leisurely breakfast I would have and the list of chores that I would do. As I was mentally rearranging the clothes in the wardrobe and stacking the t-shirts in order of colour, a gentle 'thump-thump' started below my room and I groaned because I knew what to expect next and I was right. The 'thump-thump' grew louder and soon the lovely silence was lost in a frenzy of dance music that only the chavs and those With No Taste seem to favour. My neighbour was up and decided to put his music on.

Now I should warn you that this is no ordinary neighbour. When we moved in, Small flatmate received a card from the old flatmates with the enigmatic message 'Be nice to the Incredible Hulk downstairs' scrawled in bold red letters. It didn't take long to decipher that what we had inhabiting the flat downstairs was a person of miniscule IQ but massive bulk along with a bellowing voice that I'd only ever heard utter up to two syllables at any one time. The few times that I have tried reasoning with said Hulk about music at 2am has only led me to understand and believe that he may indeed be the Missing Link.

Under normal circumstances I would shout, or thump the floor and be rewarded with a lowering of said music. Instead on the occasions I have tried this I have been presented with even louder music and, if he's in a REALLY foul mood, bad, tuneless accompanied singing to whatever track was playing.

It might be a rumour but we understand that the Hulk has done time. This was confirmed when I knocked on his door the very first time and noticed badly done prison tatoos across one arm and the immortal 'LOVE' 'HATE' tattooed over his knuckles, although the tatooist must have been illiterate or dyslexic or even Northern as 'LOVE' was abbreviated to 'LOOV'. And peering through the black grille that is reminiscent of prison bars I swear I saw one wall down the hallway wallpapered with ASBO certificates or whatever you call them...

Anyway, music pounding I roll out of bed and run my mental Plan Of Action to Knock Out His Stereo with a remote laser, but where would one find one like that?

So I have a shower and while I'm getting dressed the music seems to fade, then stops altogether. This is punctuated by a loud 'FUCK!'

And so, boys and girls, once upon a time there was an unreasonable neanderthal that roamed the streets of North London, terrorising neighbours with his sheer bulk and incoherent ramblings. And one day there was a chic, suave and urbane gentleman, who using the power of mind over matter, managed to make said neanderthal's stereo system go into meltdown... sheer delight and justice.

I'm just hoping that he won't know how to fix either the blown fuse or whatever it is that has blown. But in my experience they tend to just buy new ones.

I'm keeping the ASBO people on speed-dial.

Just In Case.

Happy New Year...

...pull your ear - Malaysian colloq.

Well, I'm back and in a Brand New Year. Each January brings with it depressive moods of having eaten and drunk and done lots of naughty things way too much over the festive period, and as a result we make measures to rectify this and this is called making New Years Resolutions (NYR). Normally these don't really last very long but some others do and it makes it worthwhile and gives one a smug feeling of achievement. Some NYR's are best achieved alone, other must be done hand-in-hand with other half. The following is a list of my NYR's:

1. Give Up Smoking: this is normally the hardest thing to do. I always find an excuse to have a cigarette and convince myself that I Am Stressed. Last night after doing the maths I have a good excuse to stop smoking, that is after 2 months of not smoking I can afford myself an i-Pod and I really would like one.

2. Give Up Chocolate: This is by far the easiest one as I don't generally eat the stuff. Will be much harder getting other half to obey this rule.

3. Go To Gym: I needn't clarify on that one as I now have supersized love handles.

4. Spend Wisely: so I have money to use in an emergency. This means that I will have to change my mobile phone tariff and only go to the cinema on Wednesdays with other half's Orange Deux pour Un offer, and scouring the aisles of Sainsbury's in the hope of attaining fabulous offers on the Taste the Difference and Be Good To Yourself range.

5. Eat Healthily: This means that garnish and cranberry and pomegranate mixers with alcohol DO NOT constitute part of the healthy 5 a day fruit/veg portions.

6. Concentrate On Studies: Easier said then done.

7... er, well, lets not go overboard here. One step at a time.

After this I will return and have a review of said resolutions on February the 1st and see if I've made any progress...

PS: On another note, blogging has been quite fun. Other half may or may not read my blogs but to me it has been wildly exciting. It's almost like being in a secret society with fellow bloggers giving you comments to boost your confidence. After a while it's almost addictive and you start thinking about what to blog about next. Like how intimate can the details be?

So I guess I shouldn't blog about other half's echoingly Loud Farts.

I just hope to goodness that he's not reading this.