I suppose I will have to leave England and shave my head. I will have to enjoy eating gruel. Perhaps I should start formulating some belief in God too.
Last night started well. I told my boss I was leaving early (5.30pm) and raced off to this funky little bar in the City for Russell's birthday.
Despite looking Better than Normal in my smart-casual jacket™ and getting a few Eye-Fucks on the way, I was still pretty much the last option for anyone with two X chromosomes. All the other men looked much better with their decent suits and general air of being richer than me. Plus I was introduced to Gay Paul's flatmate, a charming young lady who informed me that we'd actually met before. Apparently I'd asked her several times for a shag, so that was me utterly horrified.
Monkhood 1, Carrying on shambolically, nil.
I gave Russell his birthday present, a packet of condoms. He said "I don't wear those things" and threw them on the table in disgust so I picked them up and put them back in my pocket. They're Best Before 2010 so they'll be out of date before I get to use them.
But it wasn't all doom and gloom. I was stood in their toilets listening to the African chap at the sink yelling "Get your aftershave here, and get yourself some pussy." He was directing all this at me for some reason, prompting me to improv "Don't tell me, I'm not the fucking audience." This ellicited two laughs from a couple of guys having a piss nearby. At least I will always be able to make random drunk men laugh and alienate my sexist ethnic cousins.
Oop, Monkhood's just scored again.
Two of my friends then suggested we go on to a bar where some others were partying, as the Americans say, so we walked off to Brick Lane and visited Corbetts where I was absolutely enchanted by their Spanish barmaid. I'm afraid I placed my order and told her she was breathtaking. And she was. She had the most adorable large brown eyes, and a smile that could melt even the most cynical hearts (i.e. mine). She did have a strange haircut though. My only saving grace in my "Breathtaking" statement was that I never say anything that cheesy to random women, and I sincerely meant it. Later on, I asked her if she'd like a drink and a chat. She wanted the drink, but wasn't up for chatting. She was single too, dammit. Mental note: Buy drink, then chat. Don't request chat in advance. That's just stupid.
I guess this is what happens when you look less like George Clooney and more like George Formby. (Actually, it has been said that I bear more than a passing resemblance to a former World No.1 professional German tennis player, to the point where I recently auditioned to be his stand in for a European on-line gambling site advert.)
I wonder if I'll become a better monk if I have my testicles lopped off?
After humiliating myself in front of gorgeous Spaniards (I left the bar straining to find her, then spotted her skulking by the door where she'd been watching me hunt her down like a beagle), we went on to the Hoxton twatden that is the Vibe Bar. The mood taking us for some reason, my mate and I ended up buying a few ecstasy pills for the first time in years, from an aggressive dealer with BO.
Honestly, take some pride in your work.
After getting nothing but overheated, we caught the last tube home where I very slowly started to come up. I didn't realise until I nipped in to a 24-hour newsagents for cigarettes and asked the owner if he was Muslim and getting a nod, so I told him I was Jewish and shook his hand. I would've hugged him but the whole till/desk/chocolate arrangement thing was in the way and in retrospect it probably wasn't appropriate.
Why can't they all do that in Israel anyway? It would be a start.
Listened to music.
Visited Expedia and bought a one-way ticket to Rome.
I wonder if they'll let me take jazzmags?