All I seem to do just now is work and work and sleep. That's been my whole summer. If I'm not working, I'm sleeping. Therefore, I don't get out as much as possible, even though I have the money to do it. What a strange paradox.

Anyway, I did manage to get out the other night for Gibb's birthday which made up for many a lost night out. We ended up at the Garage, and for once, I wasn't raped by another man or sexually harassed by one of the bouncers (although I did witness both of these events taking place). Then again, it was a Tuesday night, and I guess the Garage can't be in full STD-ridden swing every night of the week.

Of course, the night was consumated (not literally, thank God) by Gibb's and my attempts to pick up women too old to be in the club anyway, who had Sharon Osborne style hair and no friends. For some reason, that idea seemed really funny at the time – probably because of the weird cocktails which had previously led to our anti-social, drunken behaviour and the ensuing swift ejaculation from Wetherspoons.



Arbitrary sectioning of blogs is back in style, mate!

Man in the Garage toilets: "Haw ya fanny!"
Me: "…Yes?"
Possible George Michael-a-like in the Garage toilets: "Aw sorry mate, I thought you were someone else." – That's right – a man looking for undercover police called me a fanny.

Ginger Chris: "Yes Davie I do like Joni Mitchell, I just don't know who the fuck she is."

Fat, old chick in the Garage: "You look about 12!" – Foiled again!!



I did mention that we were chucked out of Wetherspoons. Ordinarily, I'd be a little more apologetic, even remorseful about the stuff we left for that poor waitress. However, she was a bitch and gave bad service; my pint had too much head; and they didn't have the chablis I wanted and had to settle for sub-par pinot grigio. Besides, all she needed to be rid of our mess was one of these lovely signs. I don't imagine anyone would ask any questions.



Hypocritical ranting about the service industry

It really freaked me out the other day when I had to serve Moet rosé to a gay couple. The hoofters added insult to injury of my belief that men should not do anything together beyond pee (and at that, should not speak while doing so!), by leaving without paying. Probably found a 12-year-old to kidnap and molest. The moral of this story is that we should never have brought in those God-forsaken civil-partnership laws.

Okay, well, that's enough right-wing ranting – here's some good stuff I've seen at work lately. Some hot chick wandered into the guy's toilets the other day, and I don't think she realised she was in the wrong. How I laughed. And how my boss laughed when I fell over a big yellow warning sign like a total fucking geek.



Gay ass diary shit about my "feelings"

My Granda died, like, years ago. He was totally complex, and I realised the other day that although we got on really well, if he was alive just now, I'd get on with him so much better. We have similar tastes for the exotic and the upper-class, and I think we'd have a lot to talk about now. He used to work abroad most of the time as a scientist, notably in Luxembourg and Tunisia, and had tastes for straight whisky and blue cheese – to which I can totally relate. He was a musician and from what I can gather, a photographer as well. I realised that I don't really know what sort of books he used to read or anything really personal about him, since I was too young to really appriciate him. He was a total philanderer and apparently spent a lot of money keeping my uncle out of jail on drugs charges, so I'd like to have been able to ask him about those things. He used to watch the travel channel a lot while he was dying and give me advice on things I didn't think mattered at the time. I guess this is an extension of the themes in the blog I wrote about the afterlife. I guess I'm wondering if he's still around, or if he's just gone forever.