A fortnight since my last post. Surely an apathy record.
The main reason that I haven't blogged, as if any of this actually matters, is that I'm still trying to churn out the dross that is the 2nd draft of the Worst Book of All Time.
The last 12 days have continued in the same vein. I'm still cycling although I didn't this morning - Going to sleep at 3am last night and waking up four hours later befuddled me to the point that weaving in and out of angry commuter traffic didn't appeal.
Consequently, I got to see an awful lot of Cute Women in Slips™ on the tube today, which was tremendously good fun. Working as I do in a 100% male environment makes this rather vital to my sanity. In the current climate of cycling to work, cycling home, locking my door, and writing, I am becoming MORE FUCKING DESPERATE THAN EVER BEFORE, the likes of which even I'm surprised by. It is no secret that I haven't had sex since 2006 - and in five months, it'll be 2009, so that's lots of fun.
I nixed my money-saving hermit-copying lifestyle by going out on Friday night with some old Uni mates. I woke up on Saturday largely unable to function, but also very aware that if I didn't go out again, I was destined to a life of celibacy. When Martin suggested we dress up, hit the town, and make a concerted effort to pull, I took it.
We met in Notting Hill. In the first pub, a bunch of absolutely shit-faced middle aged Kiwis announced that I look like Boris Becker, which I hadn't heard for a while and strangely cheered me up. After all, I've been hearing that for a good 16 years. Mind you, Boris is ageing along with me, so I guess it's not all that flattering. In the second bar, we stared at women and discussed the glut of fake elephantine cocks in pornography (quietly). The third pub seemed more promising. The table behind us was full of cute young European women who we'd flit past in the hope that a conversation would ensue. Of course, I now know that WE SHOULD'VE JUST STARTED TALKING TO THEM, but that would've been too obvious and ultimately too humiliating.
So instead we stuck around enjoying the view until the inevitable happened; a trio of tall, bland, dark-haired Italian fuckmunchers gormlessly dragged their elongated corpses to the bar and - mere seconds after walking in - got their arses squeezed by the girls.
Cue Martin and me bitching about the tragic way this country is headed where men's arses like ours aren't bothered by the cheeky grope of a drunk bird's mitts, all while those three Italians took advantage of their being goosed by sitting with the goosers and dribbling down their cleavages.
If I did that to a woman, I'd be banged up.
We headed off to a club I'd heard about on Notting Hill Road which turned out to be a tiny fucking room up lethally steep stairs crammed with 100 desperate pissheads. There was a hen party in there, to which I asked a member if she was part of it.
'Yeah,' she yelled before trotting off.
That was the sum total of my concerted effort to pull.