I am an average man. In fact, if I may, I am a spectacularly ordinary, common-or-garden male of the genus bloke. I am hugely unphotogenic and seem to end up looking like a fat git in pictures when I had been standing there looking incredibly dapper and cool. Some think I am uncaring and impatient but I'm not, I just have testes.
I can put up a shelf. I can happily watch a documentary on Mao, then eat a crap pizza and look at the floor in a vague fug of boredom. Although sports and the chatting thereof scares me and I care nothing for cars I am, like most straight men, bemused by the mechanics of women. I like pub quizzes and the odd drink. I am, basically, spectacularly unspectacular.
So forgive me if I hate those more 'interesting' cunts, those better looking men who seem to shag all those single women out there, leaving many as crushed, distraught flowers, left feeling vulnerable and manipulated by an arrogant swaggering bollock. (Or, more disturbingly, left feeling fulfilled and rather content.)
This morning, I was awoken by a camp DJ on Gaydar radio (Gay news, gay DJs, gay weather bulletins, decent music), who was very excited as he was about to introduce this twat I used to work with. The name rang a slow bell in my foggy mind when the dull thud of recognition suddenly slapped me alert. So I switched off the radio and stormed out of bed for a pre-shower coffee before the man in question belched forth vomitations into my tired ears.
I am proud to admit that this walking STD hadn't entered my mind again until composing this post, but it has tickled me how Rod bloody Stewart was right. (Yes, I do nothing but complain. Woo-ooo-ooo, woo-ooo-ooo-ooo, woo-oooh.)
Several years ago, I was watching a documentary on a famous (in France) French poet or author or some such, who basically whinged endlessly about how fabulous women were and how devastating it was to be so fugly that none of them would touch him with a sterilised pole. I recall thinking it odd that British TV dedicated an hour to this man who had written encyclopaedias on the heavenly grace and mesmeric beauty of womenkind, who spent the whole time bitching that he couldn't bone them. (Yes, like this blog). I also recall being amused by the irony of a Frenchman denied the chance to sleep around, but anyway...
Last night, I nipped over to the City, an area of London I'm rather unfamiliar with. The city is the embryonic London of yore, the original chunk of land from whence this large metropolis expanded like a rapacious glutton with worms. Now, the City is all about the money, the home of legions of brokers and financiers in expensive suits, and women trying to snare one.
Sounds like a crass generalisation, but trust me. Spend an hour in this Revolution bar and watch the financial worker bees gather for a night's lubrication.
I arrived from work feeling out of place and looking accidentally like a drug dealer. I met similarly underdressed compadres and managed to yell into their ears one at a time over deafening music. But mainly, in no mood to scream all night, I stood and watched. Virtually all the men were young and suited. Practically all the women were young similarly attired. I felt gratified from a lingering look from a Cameron Diaz lookalike as we stared at each other for longer than 5 seconds, well beyond her vomit rising level, then cursed myself for not knowing what to do other than continue to catch her eye.
Her eye no longer became catchable.
Then I spotted a babe. A fox, if you will. A hot chick, an attractive lady, a woman guaranteed to kick me swiftly in the testicles even if all humanity were wiped out by a global tsunami and it were up to us to repopulate it. (Although I've never understood how that would work as our children would have to have sex with each other and Earth would end up full of a billion George Bushes.)
So, this girl. Very attractive, in a delicate way.
And more than a vague air of damn well knowing it too.
And she was all over this twunt I recognised. He was a former contestant from Big Brother, a swaggering twerp whose name rhymes with Tweezer who worked in the City and was back at his day job, a bloke whose beliefs include women staying in the kitchen while men earn all the money.
I don't believe that as it's rather distasteful. And can I get a shag? No.
As the girl bent over a stool, the guy made crude groping gestures with his hands while gurning lasciviously at his mate standing nearby. I, meanwhile, huffed wrily to myself - whatever that means. I wouldn't make gropey gestures at an unknowing woman's backside, but the irony is that to women, I look like the kind of average common-or-garden bloke who would.
But all this is self-deprecating bullshit. Once again, I feel the deathly stalk of a life-changing regime bearing down on me. Tomorrow, I will spend my Saturday with Monkey Dave in Brighton. On Sunday, I will re-attempt getting to the end my novel. And on Monday, things will happen.
You know, the normal stuff I do for a week then give up on.