Hit Me With That Gay Shit Until I Expire
Saturday
I achieved my first non-stop 20 minute run. Possibly in my entire life. Also worked on hanging leg raises, which are definitely a thing I can do but a thing that my body hates me for doing, especially my stomach, which is good because it means that bit may even be induced to sprout a muscle.
After another attempt at dying my hair and the non-appearance of a proper pink, the non-appearance of my YFLMD vest (still not here on Monday, fuck you PAOM), and a general sense of Probable Failure, I took Sam out first to fill us with caffeine in Costa, then through Soho and down to the Lord Moon on the Mall (it amuses me there are two Wetherspoons in Central London fairly close to each other which involve moons in the name - the Lord Moon on the Mall and the Moon Under Water [we will discount the Montagu Pike for a minute] - and yet I will not set fucking foot in the Moon Under Water and consider it Dodgy while the other, technically on Whitehall, I think is a Fine Establishment. Anyway. More caffeine. Then we went to Duckie.
Another ill-omen: Sam overheard a man at the cashpoint entertaining his female companions by saying "but when he opened his pants instead of a penis he had a vagina! It was hilarious". Yes, hilariouuuuuusssssssssssss. Utterly. Hilarious. [I have been waging attempted war on FB friends regarding how they refer to the many many figures of hatred in the media but I think they are once again missing the point and assuming that it's to do with personal rectitude or protecting the likes of Kellyanne Conway and what I actually mean is GUYS *AIM* YOUR PUNCHES]
Duckie was, for all that, okay. I spent a little while when it was quieter trying to teach Sam what I'd learned in the Charleston class; the cabaret act was a nice lady called Lorraine Bowen who has apparently been on Britain's Got Talent and did an admirable job of carefully blanking a drunk titwit who was invited to join the Crumble Line onstage and then tried to make the experience All About Him (Gays, eh? LET THE LADY DO HER ACT NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR MEDIOCRE DANCING OR FACE, MATE); the fans were broken again so it was an immediately UNBELIEVABLY SWEATY night.
Left early, as per, and in a slightly ill temper as two bottles of cider finally breaking the just-over-a-month without booze had the unfortunate side-effect of, as always, making react terribly badly to the run-of-the-mill Duckie combo of:
A. Being generally ignored by most people
B. Being utterly cut dead by anyone vaguely attractive I may have looked at
C. Being, unfortunately, sized up and groped by The Gross People
Leading me to question once again what exactly is so terribly wrong with me. Like, surely I am a LITTLE better than this? A little?
Stopped in for a planned late-night shitty chicken burger in Wood Green, in an unprecedentedly busy Shitty Chicken Emporium (Hardie's is closed so they get twice the custom), and felt genuinely quite peaceful and calm, surrounded by Wood Green's finest 2.30am people, who were primarily male, under 30, black, and watching the football on a large TV (this last brought me the revelation of why there had been so many people of the Real Ordinary British People variety in Middlesborough scarves on the tube earlier in the day: they beat Tottenham? At home? A world gone topsy-turvy, m8).
Sunday
A day of whinge and binge. Whinge because I was "inexplicably" tired and binge because that's what Sundays are for. Admittedly they're also meant to be for rest and what with post-midnight dancing/walking and the business of the day I actually hit a new Fitbit record (25k steps) without going to the gym...
We were going to go for "brunch" but by the time Sam had stopped faffing (my kingdom, btw: Jess does this. Lindsay does this, everyone does this: I go "we have to leave really soon/pretty much this exact instant in order to be on time" and they IMMEDIATELY. START. FAFFING. Then just as you are at the door - EVERY TIME - "Oh I might just nip to the loo". Why am I living with my Grandfather. My literal kingdom for people who just LEAVE WHEN THEY'RE TOLD TO) and we'd wended our way through the farmers' market and fannied around in Kimura and walked to Crouch End, with the intention of brunching at Edith's House, it was Actual Lunchtime, so I took us to Banners, instead:
https://www.instagram.com/p/BQIawcmjraS/?taken-by=derekdesanges
(I made them replace the toast with plantain because PLANTAIN, and that iced mocha was made with chocolate ice cream instead of ice and cocoa).
We walked to Archway. It wouldn't have been much of a trial to walk to Camden but I didn't want to wear down Sam's legs and I NEEDED to walk to Archway after that fucking brunch thing. Got the tube to Camden, meandered shoppily along the high road, bouncing from side to side largely heedless of the alleged traffic; got Rose Milk bubble tea; tried to get into Chula for an espresso martini but were rudely cockblocked by the place's own popularity; stopped into the microdistillery so Sam could get more Camden Half Hitch Gin; discovered that the Army Surplus place, which has been going downhill for a while, has COMPLETELY RUN OUT OF GAS MASKS (intense paranoia about this), accidentally found and subsequently bought a 1957 pattern Army Greatcoat because this one is actually the right goddamn size for me instead of being MILES. TOO. BIG. then fished up in the Stables Market Cafe:
https://www.instagram.com/p/BQIylFJjijT/?taken-by=derekdesanges
(Sam being delighted with the venue)
Following this we meandered back via a couple of shops, including the Hell that is Cyberdog (where we ... tested vibrator strength and were bemused by the gendering in the marketing: vibrators aimed at women are pink or purple and alien-looking and smooth and vibrators aimed at men are BLACK AND LOOK LIKE DICKS OR FISTS and called things like DEEP DRILL 8) which also contains an entire. Line. Of anime waifu fucking ... porn pillows and lube and just. A whole wall of Sex For MRAs, as far as I can tell.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BQI9utojJY2/?taken-by=derekdesanges
Then we went to Chula and had the martini after all. Photo composite includes the disco balls in the Stables Market Cafe, the sign opposite the stupid army surplus place, and my hot chocolate at the cafe; not pictured, me making a fuss over some stupid stupid stupid post-apocalyptic leg warmers which cost more than my jeans, or the amount of time I spent contemplating lycra hotpants in CD.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BQJBlVLjnp2/?taken-by=derekdesanges
Mildreds for dinner. I had Halloumi, and rose Harissa hummus, and spiced plum cheesecake; Sam decided she was all walked-out just as I got my second wind; we went home. I nipped out to Akdeniz to collect some more nonsense (Oreo ice cream sandwich bar, dates, bourek, that kind of thing) and managed to get sugar syrup from the baklava Jess requested (at length, after being POINTLESSLY COY when I asked if she wanted anything from the fucking shop?!?!!?) into the pocket and side of my new coat.
Monday
So far: gym went BADLY in that I didn't bother rowing and couldn't get more than five minutes done on the bike because someone had messed with the resistance setting and I don't know how to change that back, and someone was on the damn chest press when I was just about ready to do that then leave; but okay in that I managed a 400kcal walk/run cycle, barbells, lats, etc, etc, etc, etc. I suspect part of the difficulty may just be in that I am still knackered as fuck and was full of additional food weighing me down, also the relentless self-loathing may have put something of a kink in my ability to motivate myself.
Sam has just headed out to hop on the train to Gatwick; I have just finished another chapter of note transfer on Heavy and need to start getting my shit together to go back to work tonight. My knee hurts and I'm freezing; welcome back to Le Work.
I achieved my first non-stop 20 minute run. Possibly in my entire life. Also worked on hanging leg raises, which are definitely a thing I can do but a thing that my body hates me for doing, especially my stomach, which is good because it means that bit may even be induced to sprout a muscle.
After another attempt at dying my hair and the non-appearance of a proper pink, the non-appearance of my YFLMD vest (still not here on Monday, fuck you PAOM), and a general sense of Probable Failure, I took Sam out first to fill us with caffeine in Costa, then through Soho and down to the Lord Moon on the Mall (it amuses me there are two Wetherspoons in Central London fairly close to each other which involve moons in the name - the Lord Moon on the Mall and the Moon Under Water [we will discount the Montagu Pike for a minute] - and yet I will not set fucking foot in the Moon Under Water and consider it Dodgy while the other, technically on Whitehall, I think is a Fine Establishment. Anyway. More caffeine. Then we went to Duckie.
Another ill-omen: Sam overheard a man at the cashpoint entertaining his female companions by saying "but when he opened his pants instead of a penis he had a vagina! It was hilarious". Yes, hilariouuuuuusssssssssssss. Utterly. Hilarious. [I have been waging attempted war on FB friends regarding how they refer to the many many figures of hatred in the media but I think they are once again missing the point and assuming that it's to do with personal rectitude or protecting the likes of Kellyanne Conway and what I actually mean is GUYS *AIM* YOUR PUNCHES]
Duckie was, for all that, okay. I spent a little while when it was quieter trying to teach Sam what I'd learned in the Charleston class; the cabaret act was a nice lady called Lorraine Bowen who has apparently been on Britain's Got Talent and did an admirable job of carefully blanking a drunk titwit who was invited to join the Crumble Line onstage and then tried to make the experience All About Him (Gays, eh? LET THE LADY DO HER ACT NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR MEDIOCRE DANCING OR FACE, MATE); the fans were broken again so it was an immediately UNBELIEVABLY SWEATY night.
Left early, as per, and in a slightly ill temper as two bottles of cider finally breaking the just-over-a-month without booze had the unfortunate side-effect of, as always, making react terribly badly to the run-of-the-mill Duckie combo of:
A. Being generally ignored by most people
B. Being utterly cut dead by anyone vaguely attractive I may have looked at
C. Being, unfortunately, sized up and groped by The Gross People
Leading me to question once again what exactly is so terribly wrong with me. Like, surely I am a LITTLE better than this? A little?
Stopped in for a planned late-night shitty chicken burger in Wood Green, in an unprecedentedly busy Shitty Chicken Emporium (Hardie's is closed so they get twice the custom), and felt genuinely quite peaceful and calm, surrounded by Wood Green's finest 2.30am people, who were primarily male, under 30, black, and watching the football on a large TV (this last brought me the revelation of why there had been so many people of the Real Ordinary British People variety in Middlesborough scarves on the tube earlier in the day: they beat Tottenham? At home? A world gone topsy-turvy, m8).
Sunday
A day of whinge and binge. Whinge because I was "inexplicably" tired and binge because that's what Sundays are for. Admittedly they're also meant to be for rest and what with post-midnight dancing/walking and the business of the day I actually hit a new Fitbit record (25k steps) without going to the gym...
We were going to go for "brunch" but by the time Sam had stopped faffing (my kingdom, btw: Jess does this. Lindsay does this, everyone does this: I go "we have to leave really soon/pretty much this exact instant in order to be on time" and they IMMEDIATELY. START. FAFFING. Then just as you are at the door - EVERY TIME - "Oh I might just nip to the loo". Why am I living with my Grandfather. My literal kingdom for people who just LEAVE WHEN THEY'RE TOLD TO) and we'd wended our way through the farmers' market and fannied around in Kimura and walked to Crouch End, with the intention of brunching at Edith's House, it was Actual Lunchtime, so I took us to Banners, instead:
https://www.instagram.com/p/BQIawcmjraS/?taken-by=derekdesanges
(I made them replace the toast with plantain because PLANTAIN, and that iced mocha was made with chocolate ice cream instead of ice and cocoa).
We walked to Archway. It wouldn't have been much of a trial to walk to Camden but I didn't want to wear down Sam's legs and I NEEDED to walk to Archway after that fucking brunch thing. Got the tube to Camden, meandered shoppily along the high road, bouncing from side to side largely heedless of the alleged traffic; got Rose Milk bubble tea; tried to get into Chula for an espresso martini but were rudely cockblocked by the place's own popularity; stopped into the microdistillery so Sam could get more Camden Half Hitch Gin; discovered that the Army Surplus place, which has been going downhill for a while, has COMPLETELY RUN OUT OF GAS MASKS (intense paranoia about this), accidentally found and subsequently bought a 1957 pattern Army Greatcoat because this one is actually the right goddamn size for me instead of being MILES. TOO. BIG. then fished up in the Stables Market Cafe:
https://www.instagram.com/p/BQIylFJjijT/?taken-by=derekdesanges
(Sam being delighted with the venue)
Following this we meandered back via a couple of shops, including the Hell that is Cyberdog (where we ... tested vibrator strength and were bemused by the gendering in the marketing: vibrators aimed at women are pink or purple and alien-looking and smooth and vibrators aimed at men are BLACK AND LOOK LIKE DICKS OR FISTS and called things like DEEP DRILL 8) which also contains an entire. Line. Of anime waifu fucking ... porn pillows and lube and just. A whole wall of Sex For MRAs, as far as I can tell.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BQI9utojJY2/?taken-by=derekdesanges
Then we went to Chula and had the martini after all. Photo composite includes the disco balls in the Stables Market Cafe, the sign opposite the stupid army surplus place, and my hot chocolate at the cafe; not pictured, me making a fuss over some stupid stupid stupid post-apocalyptic leg warmers which cost more than my jeans, or the amount of time I spent contemplating lycra hotpants in CD.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BQJBlVLjnp2/?taken-by=derekdesanges
Mildreds for dinner. I had Halloumi, and rose Harissa hummus, and spiced plum cheesecake; Sam decided she was all walked-out just as I got my second wind; we went home. I nipped out to Akdeniz to collect some more nonsense (Oreo ice cream sandwich bar, dates, bourek, that kind of thing) and managed to get sugar syrup from the baklava Jess requested (at length, after being POINTLESSLY COY when I asked if she wanted anything from the fucking shop?!?!!?) into the pocket and side of my new coat.
Monday
So far: gym went BADLY in that I didn't bother rowing and couldn't get more than five minutes done on the bike because someone had messed with the resistance setting and I don't know how to change that back, and someone was on the damn chest press when I was just about ready to do that then leave; but okay in that I managed a 400kcal walk/run cycle, barbells, lats, etc, etc, etc, etc. I suspect part of the difficulty may just be in that I am still knackered as fuck and was full of additional food weighing me down, also the relentless self-loathing may have put something of a kink in my ability to motivate myself.
Sam has just headed out to hop on the train to Gatwick; I have just finished another chapter of note transfer on Heavy and need to start getting my shit together to go back to work tonight. My knee hurts and I'm freezing; welcome back to Le Work.