Thursday 18th February 2010

I managed to drag myself out of bed at about 10:30, significantly later than I usually like to rise but I was still feeling ropey from three bottles of Grolsch consumed on Monday. They were the obese bottles with the cool flick and pop tops, which I’m convinced means the bar just refills them with any old crap. Once I was up I was determined to actually do something constructive as the day before I managed to spend 6 hours inside playing Fifa 2010. In my defence, I’d worked my way up to becoming an Arsenal regular on ‘Virtual Pro Mode’; not exactly what most people would call ‘productive’. Today I wanted to invent something as culturally significant as penicillin or at least get an England cap on Fifa.
So I got the bus to my outrageously expensive gym. I don’t know if I can divulge it’s official name so shall we say…‘Virgin Inactive’ in Notting Hill. In my mind, paying £70 a month to use a gym means I will actually go more than once a month. It seems to be working but then again even if it was free I think I’d still try to go as the alternative is staying indoors playing Xbox and masturbating myself into an early grave. Pumping iron in the gym is a legal and socially acceptable form of wanking, in my eyes (not the best choice of words). I went on the running machine and chose the one next to the most attractive woman in the gym. If proximity ever becomes the most attractive trait in a person I’m in prime position to cash in. I tried to lift some weights but it’s less fun than running next to an attractive woman. Also I was attempting to avoid the gazes of the various gym monkey boys. When I say gym monkey boys I’m not casually dropping in a racial slur, that’s just my name for the personal trainers, who pretend to be your friend in the hope that you’ll pay them loads of money to shout you into shape. Gym monkey boy (GMB) number one, who’s quite small and Hispanic and looks like he should be driving a taxi in Tenerife, saw me picking my nose whilst I sat on the bench press. Normally I’d wipe it on the bench but as I’d been caught snot handed I had to rub it on my towel.
I left the gym at around 1pm. Only a few more hours left to eat up. I wanted to go down into Portobello road, find a cute coffee shop with free Wifi and write funny jokes surrounded by bourgeoisie creative people. Before this I needed lunch and so went into a Mexican joint and was served by a real Mexican woman-well she had an accent and a tan so, I guess that’s where she was from. I had a meal deal that involved chicken wings and a drink for £5, which on the surface looked great value but three chicken wings actually amounts to no more than a heaped tablespoonful of protein. That’s what happens when you experiment at lunch, you spend money to remain hungry. Tits.
I did find a coffee shop. It was the world’s smallest Coffee Republic. Hardly the indie, trendy venue I was hoping for. I couldn’t write in there because it was the size of most domestic baths and there were two women having a heated argument. One was wearing a helmet that I assumed was for riding a moped but doubled up as protection from Tally McAngry woman (that’s the nickname I gave to the other lady). I then ended up in a place called Kitchen and Pantry, where only Polish women work and the customers are either really old, really attractive older women or tourists, I don’t know which one of those categories I fit into. In the 2 hours I was there I probably wrote 3 things that might be funny, and spent the rest of the time refreshing my Hotmail, Facebook and BBC Sport. A woman was running around frantically, as someone had pinched her handbag. I bet it was one of the crafty pensioners . There is something really uncomfortable about watching a person descend into panic when they quickly come to the realisation that all their earthly possessions are gone. It culminates in them walking around in circles really quickly, holding their hand over their mouth whilst they shake their head and repeatedly shout ‘shit’, ‘fuck’ or ‘bollocks’. To put a more positive spin on it: her loss is my gain as I had something worth writing down…every cloud…
I also downloaded some belting tracks, by Plan B and Prodigy, whilst I was there. That evening I ironically enough got given the new Prodigy album by their very drunk manager in a pub near my flat but if I told you about that, I’d be breaking the 9-5 rule I’ve implemented. In truth, that would be a much more interesting end to this blog than me jumping on the 52 bus back to Kensal Rise but I’ve made my bed, so I’ll have to snooze in it.


Well, there you have it. That is the first insight into how I pass my day times. I really wish there were people who had my interests available to hang out with in the daytime. I thought it would be a good idea for a website: people, who work evenings in your area, fill in their interests and you meet up and hang out. Friends.com, does annoyingly already exist but it seems to heavily push the idea that once you meet they people, you have it off with them. Why can’t there be a website that has no emphasis on sex and instead pushes the thought of meeting up to play Fifa and go to Mega Bowl. Until tomorrow…