My health plan is going extraordinarily well; I should've gone back to the gym tonight but instead, I find myself slightly drunk and chainsmoking.
I've got an Excel spreadsheet with full calorific details and everything, but I'm clearly not sticking to it. For one thing, I'm finding it a tad disheartening to cycle to work, swim, do a full day SLAVING FOR THE MAN and cycle home to lift weights and run on the spot only to discover I've actually gained weight.
Yes, I'm aware that muscle weighs more than fat, but it's still annoying.
Ergo, I'm making loads of spelling mistakes as I sit here typing away with a fag in my mouth whilst eating a kebab.
Valentine's Day was an eye-opener. I noted that morning with some interest a fair plethora of women actively staring at me, wondering, actually surmising in those briefest of nanoseconds if, in fact, I could live up to their instant ideal such was the pressure of the day. If I was being kind, I would actually recommend February 14th as a godsend for singlefolk as equally desperate people woke up that morning absolutely gagging for anything surly and unshaven.
The night before, I was ensconced in a pleasant tavern (well, the Lord Moon of the Mall in Whitehall), catching up with some folks from my previous job. While it was a very pleasant evening, I did note a gaggle of women at a nearby table. They caught my eye for one reason; seven of them were sat with only two men, two young, suited pups from the City. Their interaction fascinated me. The girls sat either side of the men were frantic and exuberant in their expressions, touching, laughing, and generally looking like the cats that had all the cream. Meanwhile, the other women seemed somehow subdued, mere shadows of themselves. I didn't realise this until my eye was caught by the girl sitting directly opposite me. I had been staring at her in lazy detachment, not really thinking of anything, when she saw me and visibly went all coy like a nervous six-year-old with a sudden audience. In the fierce competition of her table, she became animated when she noticed me staring.
She stroked her hair.
She glanced in my direction.
And then I went and ruined it all by grinning.
And thus, I recalled Lesson Number One in trying to pull women: Look disinterested. Or rather, look interested enough to seem keen, but not so interested that they sense complete and utter desperation.
Because all women are Idiot bloodhounds.
It also helps if you don't look like a shaved Clement Freud.
I've spent the last few days embarking on my 'Fuck this life, I want a change' Plan, by having my picture taken at every conceivable opportunity. The idea behind this is to update my dating website profile and snare myself an attractive maniac.
Unfortunately, Hitler, Jim Davidson, and John Merrick the Elephant Man are somehow more photogenic than me. It's not been fun realising that a racist comedian with elephantiasis and a Hitler moustache will get more hits than me on Jdate.
I can't take much more of friends taking my picture, pausing, then laughing uproariously while I say 'delete it' in bored monotone.
But grand plans are afoot. I'm going to open London's first decent 24-hour pub with Nothing Man. It's realistic, it's cost-effective, and the fact that no-one's opened one yet shows that the market's there - and not that it's a complete waste of time laden with petty-minded bureaucracy.
I'm running out of life options here. I keep getting rejections from jobs I've been applying for.
My latest rejection was for a position I'd been banned from mentioning, but since I got shafted, I can reveal all; I'm actually applied to become an operative for MI6.
Sadly, I'm deeply ashamed to admit, I'm not lying. I applied to become James Bond.
I am not a fantasist. I just want a decent job.