Just got back from DJigging a big charity event. Also known as a D lister party. D-listers. D-lusters. Reality show heads. Famous ex-wives. People in commercials. Rich old men. Young empty women. Desperate older women, out looking for husbands. Empty. Vapid. Fake. Gift bags. Mighty fun! Thank funk I was DJigging. At least I discovered that romance novels are a great ice-breaker. Got home. Done. Dusted. Dancing? Eh. Nay. Kind of has me pondering. How’s my plan going? You know. Every man needs a plan, plan. So. In the past month I have:
In case you were wondering, not every day in L-Hey is nuts. Today was pretty normal. Shopped. Washed. Gymed. Chilled. Mostly recovered. Sunday was pretty mighty. Man cures. Just the one. Happy hour. Oh Jesus. Pub crawl. Impromptu. Riding mechanical maniac bulls. Singing the booze. Bumping into randomers. Bringing along stragglers. Ploughing on. Finishing it all off with a night cap and deep gibberish conversations in a car park at half two in the morning. Savage day. But kind of normal, in a way. Could happen anywhere. Unlike, say, Saturday. Funk me pink. Uniquely L-Hey day. Random. Dumb. Full on fun!
Up at 7 bells for a photo shoot. Random. 3 hours sleep due to DJigging. Dumb. Not too sure what the shoot’s for. Need a few professional photos to add to my portfolio of one headshot. So I’m told. So I’m in. Cover of Women’s Weekly all the way! Shoot was on in Santa Monica. Pier. Beach. Lovely. Arrive. Cloudy. Grey skies. Looks like it might rain. Waves crashing in. Bed calling. Start throwing it out there that maybe we should reschedule. Wait for better light. Sheen from the sea is very bright. Spouting out complete gibber. Vain attempts to get me back to bed. No joy. Heere now, let’s see what we can do. Cue teapot. Continue Reading »
Car services picks me up. 9 bells. Slightly late. Balls. Farewell to Bob. Out the door. Back to London. Single parenthood over. 9.15. Good to go. Off to Van Nuys. Private airport. Same one in Entourage, I’m told en route. The Man. The Jack. Chowder. Charlotta. And a late ape. Weekend break in Miami. The Man’s generosity knows no boundaries! Giddy up! Flight leaving at 10 bells. Are we going to miss our time slot because of the late ape? Nay. No check-in. No security. Nothing. Drive up to a gate. Press the buzzer. Stay in the car. Drive through. Drops you off at the jet. Hassle free. Private on. Nice jet? Unreal. Like a G6? I think so. Oh Jesus. Jump out. Driver takes care of your luggage. You can just admire the view. No ID check. No shoes off. Belt off. Pants down. Nada. Just stroll on. Sit down. Stewardess says hi. Champagne? Bloody Mary? Cup of tea? Ehhh. All three? Oh Betsy!! Drug barons must be zipping to and fro? Miami on!!!
So my buddy Bob is visiting at the moment. Two weeks in LA, first time here. Go on the Bob! Now I fully realise what it’s like to be a single parent. No longer just a randumb dope on my own. Permanent plus one as well. Juggling tour guidance with work. Detached from my own thoughts. Neglecting my mistress, el blogaruu. Tough going for a Nark like myself. Which is why I’ve now taken a vow of abstinence until marriage. Better safe than sorry. Ahum’p. Like a few of my buddies, Bob has bought my book Randumb, but hasn’t read it. Doesn’t actually admit this to me, so I like to ask him what’s his favourite part and then he changes the subject (Unless he just has no favourite part! Ha. Eh. Meh). As a result it’s fair to say he had no clue what to expect of the LA way. Bob, say goodbye to Norm… Continue Reading »
Blogaruu, she’s been a while! My bad for the delay. Quite busy with vital stuff. Such as realising that I might be a fairy (apparently fairies can only handle or feel one emotion at a time. I am a full on fairy. Call me Tinker). And speaking of menstrual cycles… So back in the day, whenever a girl complained to me about cramps, I would complain back about people who complain a lot. Until I realised I actually can empathise. I too get man periods. Once a month. Every month. Rent cramps kick in. So now, I feel their pain. Similarly, whenever a girl complained about the thought of giving birth, I would shrug my shoulders and mention never having to deal with the pain of getting a kick in the fuss-balls. Until for some reason I thought about it like this: Imagine a little person exiting through the back door of your gift shop. If you know what I mean. I don’t think guys can fathom anything leaving through the front door, what with us not having one and all. But the back door seems to make it imaginable. Imagine that pain. Ripping. Tearing. Uncooperative. Sweet. Holy. Jesus. Must be ridiculous. Even thinking of it now is making my sphincter scream and squirm. So now I kind of understand the terror girls must have. Even worse, imagine if after all that, the child was to turn out like someone like the person writing this? For all that pain?! Dose. Apologies, Mum. Continue Reading »