England: Day Three, London & Oxford

After our not so debauched evening of barhopping we got up in the morning (shocker!) and commenced the joys of packing our bags, as we had to take the bus to Oxford that very day. I was feeling oddly crappy, as if the previous evening had been much more decadent than it had actually been, but I decided to write it off to being in the sun too much.

On a sidenote: I am a messy traveller. Okay, I can partly blame it on my bag, which is just not very good for keeping your stuff neat and separate, but it's also just me, I pull things out, throw them back in and generally make a mess of my luggage. Since my bag only had one big compartment, I also had to pile my laundry in with my fresh clothes, which I found to be sort of yukkie. With my extra purchases, closing up the bag turned into a very perilous labour.

Tim on the other hand is very neat. While my stuff was spread all over the floor and under the bed, his was always contained within the boundaries of his (very practical) bag. No matter which hostel we stayed at, I would take up an inordinate amount of space, compared to Tim's little bag, which seemed so tiny, yet managed to keep more things in tidily than my stupid sack on wheels, which was at all times ready to burst at the seams.

Conclusion: screw self-improvement and neatness, Bobster needs a brand new bag.

Anyhow, one last continental breakfast in London and we grabbed our bags and proceeded to cross Hyde Park to our busstop. This had all seemed easy in theory: cross the park, get to the stop, get onto the bus, sit back and relax. In practice it turned out a little differently. Not that we didn't KNOW Hyde Park is fricking huge, but when you're walking across it with your luggage and the sun burning in your neck, you really REALISE it's fricking huge. Having crossed the park, it turned out we still had quite a way to go (we did see the Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Fountain, which I thought was rather pretty) and by this time I was already exhausted, sweating and my head was trying to explode. I think I trailed Tim by 20 meters the entire time. Not that it mattered too much, because when we got to the place, there were about 25 buses, not one of them ours, and it turned out it could be leaving anywhere along the very long road we were on. In short: we missed it and we had to to take another bus.

Luckily buses to Oxford leave almost continually and after having bought new tickets from a total bitch, we were quickly on our way, me exhausted and feeling really crappy, Tim doing well as far as I could tell :) Our driver was a very nice Santa-esque man, who was terribly helpful and witty. A delight to listen to, truly. Our busride was in any case more relaxed than our way to the bus.

Arriving in Oxford, my first thought was , well, my first thought was that I wanted a Dafalgan, maybe two, but the one right after that one was that I had imagined Oxford very differently. I thought it would look more studenty, as in a couple of really fancy college buildings, surrounded by lots of small houses, stores and neon, and all sort of gritty looking. It doesn't look anything like that. It's gorgeous building followed by impressive monument, followed by quaint house, all spread out between what seemed like a hundred amazing colleges. Basically, once you've seen Oxford, you can just stop visiting England if you're there for the views. Every monument or cathedral we saw after that, we were like 'not bad, but it ain't Oxford'.

Second realisation: Oxford is not cheaper than London, another idea I had. It's not, at all. We noticed this very quickly and I at least breathed a sigh of desperation. We checked into our hostel, a very nice place called Central Backpackers, which I misread ad Central Barebackers every single time, but that's probably just me, I know, I'm a sick man. We were checked in by a very rugged and handsome Australian who'd been travelling around by working in places like that for quite some time, and who would later on make his way through Canada and the US in the same way. Which seemed pretty cool actually.

I though our room was nicer than the one we had in London, and no birds around (we would later notice that our window came out right on the patio where all the smoking and drinking was done, which was also not ideal, but by the time this presented a problem, I was too far gone to care much either way.) so that all looked good. We only had one roommate, who I actually didn't talk to at all, but Tim did, about Discworld as I recall, but I was already in the thrall of fever then and slipping in and out of sleep. But that's for a little later on.

We got right out of there and headed to the mall to get us another pic-nic and then we went to the Head of the River, through a park which belonged to Christ Church College, the biggest Oxford college and the one with the richest history. It also had a long stretch of grass right by the Thames where we had our pic-nic. I was feeling really bad by now and fell asleep for a while after our pic-nic, which Tim took shameless advantage of to shoot this picture.

After that we walked across the path, observing the locals, and admiring the college buildings, and I also fed some geese, which was great fun until they sort of ganged up on me and I became a little nervous. Luckily, we got away unharmed.

Oxford offered other interesting views other than stunning buildings and a rich cultural history. It had some of the freakiest people we came across until then (Manchester was still to come), such as a girl who looked like Pipi Longstockings after an especially tough adolescence. Words could not possibly describe her, she had to be seen to be believed.

We honestly didn't do that much more the rest of the day, at least I don't think we did, it was all a bit of a haze to me. We saw a lot of colleges, but then again, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a college. We visited a pub called the Bear, where the walls were decorated with pieces of tie, which had once belonged to notable or famous people, but the most recent one I could discover was from 1974 and none of the names meant anything to me.

Later on in the evening we went to a cocktail bar, which boasted a plaque saying that it had the second best cocktail menu in the world, according to some organisation. I could sure believe it, the menu was endless, with originally created cocktails and it took quite some time deciding. Tim didn't even attempt to decide and allowed the waiter to just throw something together. I don't remember what I had exactly, but it was very tasty.

We decided to end our day with that and I was glad to, as I was seriously feeling ill by then, so we returned to the hostel. When I walked onto the patio I was immediately accosted by a drunk, blond and unbelievably stunning English bloke. He had actually mistaken me for someone from his own group, but we got to talking after that (though not an easy task, as he'd had quite a few too many). Basically he had just started a new job working as a collector for a charity and they were there for a teambuilding. Tim came out onto the patio after that as well and naturally he also took an interest in the conversation. We told him we would also be going to Manchester and he became rather excited, saying that Manchester was wicked awesome and a great party. We asked him if he could recommend anything and he got a sort of mischievous smile on his face. What followed is sort of hard to write down, but it was hilarious if you were there. It went something like this:

Hot Blond Drunk: well, first off, you two, are you... like... are you? You know (making certain handmotions)

Me: (grinning) No, we're not. But we are... uh... separately.

HBD: (confused) So you guy aren't?

Me: Well, we are, but we're not together.

After finally having gotten the fact that gays can share a room without eating each other's arse, he proceeded to gush about Manchester and how great Canal Street is and how there was one bar which was really awesome and how a guy had bought him a drink and had tried to kiss him and he'd been like Woooaw, I'm not gay and so on and so on. After that he went back to asking whether Tim and me had never (So you two... like... you never?) been together, and even after firm denials he didn't quite believe it (Like, not even once?).

The amazing thing is that we had an entire conversation that was basically about gay sex without the words gay or sex being mentioned once. I honestly don't think he actually finished an entire sentence, it was very much a matter of reading in between the lines and in between those lines there was Tim, me and a lot of gay sex apparantly. I suppose we were confronted with that cliché that gay men can't be friends without anything more. I found it all very amusing and on top of that he was more than easy on the eyes, so the entire exchange entertained me greatly, but I decided to go to bed anyway.

And that's about it for me for day three. Next time: Day Four, Oxford & Birmingham.

England: Day Two, London

Bob *You Can Be As Loud As The Hell You Want When You're Making Love* zegt:
think Marcello and let the semi-porn flow from your fingers
Bob *You Can Be As Loud As The Hell You Want When You're Making Love* zegt:
ew
Tim - Home zegt:
...
Bob *You Can Be As Loud As The Hell You Want When You're Making Love* zegt:
that didn't come out right

After our scorching first day, we were awakened, as previously mentioned, by an overzealous mother bird who provided food for her extremely loud young. I like birds, but if they hadn't been safely out of reach, I'd have chucked 'm straight onto the pavement...

At 6.30 our Italian Stallion and his mate came in, talking about the night they had (I don't care, either take off your shirt or I go back to sleep), the bars they visited (take off your shirt), the girls they met (that's it, I'm going back to sleep), the 3 hour walk back (Almost asleep), and asking if I could wake them when I got up (sure, zzzzzz). Being a dutiful boy, I did wake them 2 hours later, as they asked, the masochists, and in return we were rewarded with shirtless Italian heading to the showers, sporting that towel again. There really are worse ways to wake up.

We had quite a busy day planned actually, ranging from shopping to sightseeing to barhopping at night, so we headed to breakfast, seated next to some Germans. The English hotels universally serve what they call a Continental breakfast, and it's always cereal, toast, jam and some kind of bun. But hey, at least they had decent coffee. We were soon joined by our roommates, who would be moving out of the room after breakfast (aaaaow) and as we were leaving, Marcello grabbed Tim in an impressive bearhug. It has to be said, Italians are a very physical people. Me, not having talked to Marcello that much, nor being a fan of the Hugging People I Barely Know, tried to get away with a friendly handshake, but to no avail, I simply had to be clasped in those muscular arms and ground against those impressive abs. I think I had a complaint in there somewhere, but it slips my mind. Anyway, his friend did let us off with just a friendly handshake and we were loose in London once again.

I honestly don't remember the exact sequence of events after that, but I do know that we saw a lot of shops, where we couldn't afford anything. The shops were described as 'hip and alternative' in our guide, which basically means like the Kammenstraat: used to be hip and alternative, now they're just really expensive and everyone goes there. I did buy another cap at this suspect store where they sold a lot of print-on shirts, the kind that are really funny and come in two sizes: Anorexic and Citizen of Minnesota, so they never quite fit. We also visited a rather fun, and very gay store, where they were playing very dance dance music and the salesboys just stood around dancing and shaking their groin around. The clothes were actually nice, though way too expensive and extremely queer (not that I ever had a problem with that, it's just that I can dresh trashy and queer like that for a lot less money).

Anyhow, despite visiting a lot of stores, we didn't buy anything, except my cap thing. We did also go to a Waterstones, and everyone who knows me, also knows that I have wood for Waterstones, so it's actually a bad thing that they are all over the UK. I ended up buying four books, and Tim one, which we put into two separate bags, but somehow we managed to lose the bag with one of my books and Tim's book in it after only one day, so that was pretty stupid. I considered buying back the same book at one of the many other Waterstones we visited later on the trip, but in the end I didn't. Speaking of books, since the book I had with me (Tom Lanoye, Zwarte Tranen) was done after only a few days, I also read my newly acquired book, a biography on Lady Jane Grey, The Nine Days Queen, and after that one I started in Sisters to the King, a biography on Mary and Margaret Tudor.

Anywho, we also did some sightseeing, taking the subway over to Southwark Cathedral, which was a nice enough Cathedral, and although we'd only been on the road about 5 minutes by then, we immediately plunked down there to have a coffee, and I had another one of those speaking in English moments, this time concerning a very tall Swedish boy who was sitting at the next table. I don't think he noticed though, and if he did, he was very tactful about it :)

From Southwark we walked along the Thames to London Bridge, which we crossed to get to the side of the Tower. London Bridge is really nice, I didn't bother to look at it very well last time I was in London, but this time I gave it a little more thought and it really is a stunning piece of work. The only downside is that the whole time I was near it, I was stuck with that horrid Fergie song, it just kept racing through my head, on and on and on 'My London, London Bridge wanna go down like blah blah blah', I don't even know the right lyrics. Basically, Fergie ruined London Bridge. And Josh Duhamel. And her pants. And her face, but that's more her own tragedy.

So after that we went around the Tower. We didn't go in, because we felt it would be a bit too expensive and we were already going to see Warwick Castle in Birmingham (we didn't, but more on that later). Next time, no matter what, I'm going inside, that's for sure :) I also amused myself with taking pictures of this really funny kid while we were sitting down. His poor mother was in a bind, but he seemed to be enjoying himself splendidly and I couldn't resist snapping a couple of pictures.

After the Tower, we wandered through the City, staying in the shade (it was fricking hot and I was getting burnt all over the place) and not really passing anything too notable. We did pass by the Monument, which according to Tim you can climb and then you get a certificate that you climbed it. So basically it's scorching hot, and you get to pay to climb a gazillion stairs, to get a view of a bunch of tall business buildings and then you get a paper. Yeah, we didn't do that one.

We'd earlier had a drink at an Irish pub named O'Neills and we rather liked the dinner menu there, so we found our way back there, but the terrace was full and inside they were watching a World Cup Soccer Game, or whatever and it was packed with enthusiastic fans, so we didn't feel like having our food there. Determined to have some real Irish cooking, we sat in wait until people left, but they took their sweet time so by the time they were gone, I was absolutely famished. It was worth waiting for though, I had Colcannon (I think) which is some sort of mash and Guinness and pork sausages, which was absolutely delicious. We did feel rather stupid when we later on discovered O'Neills was actually a chain of Irish pubs and you can find them all over the UK. Oh well, live and learn.

After going back to the hostel to freshen up, we headed into Gay area of London and visited a bunch of bars, none of which I thought were particularly fun. Sure, it was bemusing to see a faux-blond boy with a super-faux tan, strutting around in really short Diasy Duke shorts, and sure we got well and drunk enough, up to the point of taking very embarassing pictures, which are actually on Tim's camera, so sadly (you can feel my pain, I'm sure) I won't be posting those, but (wow, sentence structure went down the drain there somewhere) I didn't think it was all that great. The fact that we made it back to the hostel rather early says enough when it comes to that.

We had no roommates for our last night, but sound sleep was not to be ours, as mama bird was still dedicated to her breed, but that's for the next update: England: Day Three, London & Oxford.

Cheers!

England: Day One, London.

Bob *Did the United Kingdom* zegt:
yay, I give boys erections
Kev (good music / i dance / no good music / i not dance) zegt:
congratulations!

Okay, I decided to blog about the trip Tim and me made to England, but it seemed a bit too much to put it all in one post, so I'm doing it day by day, which should also make it easier to remember stuff.

So, day one!

After a sleepless night (the universe had ordained my plan to start the week fresh as a bedewed daisy would not come to fruitition) I was up and ready on time to meet Tim (who'd gone out and still got more sleep than I did, lucky bastard) early in the morning, and our travels were kicked off. We took the train at Central, which is like, duuh, but I only mention it because I got to see the 'new' station for the first time. Not too shabby, though getting to your train now takes a good long while, won't be managing to storm in 2 minutes before, buy a ticket and still catch it. Luckily, we were neatly on time.

The train ride over went smoothly enough, though there was a bit of a scare when I tried to check in with a knife in my back-pack. I'm blaming tiredness for not realising that bringing a big, sharp knife might be a bad idea in these troubled times. On the other hand, after making me take it out and asking me what it was for (uh, it's to cut bread, sir...), they just let me take it along anyway, so terrorists, it's not that hard as long as you're lightskinned enough!

We got to London, managed to untangle the complex rates of the Subway, and even faultlessly found our hostel (I credit Tim with that). As we had decided before, our first item of business was to have a pic-nic in Hyde Park, so we went to the Tesco (sort of their Aldi, except they also have Aldi in England, so it's not really and uh, supermarket, cheap, whatever) where Tim and I argued over mayonaise (trust me, it gets important later on), but finally settled on mustard. Which ew, I just remembered is still in my back-pack and probably kind of gross by now. Anyhow, we were off to Hyde Park after that for a sumptuous feast and did I mention how great the weather was? It was like being in ff-ing Greece, I practically got sunburn on the very first day. A positive effect of this: shirtless boys! And nearly pantsless boys, though that one looked a bit odd to my tastes, and I'm a fan of low-rise jeans.

After lounging and relaxing and quite frankly shamelessly reducing the men around us to pure objects of sexual gratification, we decided to head into SoHo and do some shopping. We went over to Prowler, a funky gay store, where I bought some awesome underwear and was neatly helped by the attendant with fitting form suggestions and the like. Nice people, them Londoners. After that we went back to the hostel to get into our rooms, and this, ladies and gentlemen, is where we were bowled over by the sight of an Italian God. I had actually stayed behind a bit to finish my smoke, but when I got to the room, I didn't think Tim was in yet, so I sat down right in front of the door, when it was opened and behold, there stood a tan, dark-haired, angel-eyed, six-packed cream of a man in front of me, wearing only a towel around his waist. Somewhat taken aback by the unexpected apparition, I managed to mumble some form of hello and we exchanged names, his being Marcello, which I honestly didn't catch, but Tim informed me later. Once inside the room I could easily tell Tim was also in the thrall of delightful admiration. We also met Marcello's friend, our other roommate, whose name I didn't catch either, and for some reason Tim didn't find it necessary to remind me of it.

They were both very nice boys, though Marcello was the only one was spoke some English, and he not a lot and not very well at that. I'm quite certain that I barely understood half he said, so I just agreed to all of it. However, they would only be in our room for one night and then they would move to a cheaper room, which became available only then.

After having refreshed ourselves, we went back into the city, this time to go see Avenue Q, the musical which is described as a sort of adult, graphic Sesame Street. It's pretty goddamn funny, and its two hours flew by in no time. Some absolutely listenworthy songs are Lucy the Slut (I can make you feel special), The Internet is for Porn, Everyone's a Little Bit Racist and You Can Be As Loud As The Hell You Want When You're Making Love.

The set-up of the show is a street, Avenue Q, very low-rent, with young educated people whose careers are nonetheless not quite so fabulous. Humans, puppets and monsters live together and sing a lot about being gay and masturbating and the turmoil of grown-up life. The actors who do the puppets are actually just on stage while doing their bit and their interaction is at times hilarious. Also, two of the actors, one in particular, were smoking hot. I mean, climb on their lap and be their puppet hot, I think I fell in love/lust a little bit with the main actor, who voiced Preston, the newcomer on Avenue Q. So much even that I had my picture taken with his poster, how very fanboy-ish of me.

After the musical we set out for a bite to eat and ran into an Indian restaurant in some side alley, where a very crafty waiter somehow convinced us to order more than we'd planned. It took about 1 minute before we regretted out choice of dining accomodations. Not because of the food, that hadn't even arrived yet, but all three waiters had the revolting habit of loudly and gruntingly sucking the snot back into their noise and then swallowing it. They did this while you ordered, while they served your food, as you ate, continually. It sure did put a dent in my appetite. Right across from where we were eating there was also an adult sex shop, kinky boobless lady harness in the window. Right next to the shop, was the Christ Church Centre, which I found mildly amusing. I can just imagine the neighbourhood squabbles (what store is moving in next door? A what? Oh Good Lord!)

It was at this point that I was also confronted with the fact that I speak in English without realising it way too much. Being in a foreign country gives you the luxury of being able to talk about anyone and anything in as derogatory, objectifying or admiring a way as you'd like (as long as they don't happen to be Dutch, 'cause those are everywhere), but it sort of defeats the purpose if you start doing these things in the native language of the country. While we were on the terrace, some people passed us and Tim said something like 'wow, ge kunt die vrouw haar tepels keihard zien', to which I loudly responded 'Who's showing her nipples?' . Luckily the 50something woman with the rockhard nipples didn't hear me and her husband seemed more amused than anything. I think I did that a dozen or so times over the entire trip, prompting Tim to alarmedly remind me: Nederlands! Nederlands!

Anyway, we wandered around some after that, and then we decided to go to some gay bar, but having gotten confused about the way to go, we ended up in quite another place and had to backtrack a long way. When we passed the building where Avenue Q played, we noticed the two hot guys standing at the artists' door. A very bold Tim went up to them to ask for a picture, which he got, and then it was my turn, so I put myself in between the two blokes, held on tight, possibly more tightly than would be assumed decorous, but hey, blame me. Unfortunately the camera wouldn't go, and as Tim and Some Girl wrangled with it, we just stood there, locked into each other's arms. Hottie main actor even said: It's quite interesting how there's no picture being taken, yet we're still holding each other tightly. It's quite cosy though. To which I sort of swooningly replied: yes, the experience of a lifetime, and they had a good laugh at that. In the end the camera turned out to be out of juice, so I never did get my picture, but I can content myself with the memories :)

We did eventually make it to the bar on Charing Cross, a crowded dark place, where I was ordering Stellas when a 50something grey haired man accosted us. It took me a while to realise what he was talking about, but it turned out that he was a truckdriver who worked for Tesco and he'd seen us in the store that morning. As a matter of fact, he knew absolutely perfectly which way we'd gone through the store and that we had briefly stood arguing about something, to which I spontaneously replied 'oh, that must have been the mayonaise', forgetting momentarily that you should never give gay men gooy thick white stuff to use as a joke. He just went on and on about it, and I just stood there smiling politely and nodding, barely listening, but Tim afterwards told me that I sort of politely smiled and nodded to his suggestion about a tube of mayonaise and that he could always make me some or something along those lines. After that he scurried off. I suppose it's not a turn-on when you offer your semen to a boy and he just expresionnessly smiles and nods vaguely.

We stuck around the bar a little longer, but soon got bored and decided to call it a day, it had after all been a long one. We returned (roommates AWOHL, they would return only at 6.30, which I know because I was awake at 5, because a damn bird made a damn nest above our window).

All in all, a very good, very sunny, very funny, thoroughly enjoyable first day of vacation.

Next time: Day Two, London

The Cobbled Road

Staring out of the window, he considered that it wasn't all he'd expected it to be.

He saw all the same things he always saw on this drive. Not a lot.

It was early, too early to be out already. Night hadn't quite lifted yet, but the first light began to illuminate the world. This little part of it anyway. Everything looked grey and dull. He passed the grey and dull school, the grey and dull office buildings, the grey and dull appartment buildings.

He'd never even seen what they looked like in the daylight. For all he knew, they might be brightly coloured, cheerful and full of life. He grunted. Like it mattered to him, he only ever saw them like this: grey and dull and dead.

He had hated this road from the first time he had encountered it. Not because it was grey and dull, most of the roads he passed by at this hour were grey and dull, and when they were not, they were lit up artificially in such a way as to make them even less appealing.

No, it was the surface that made this particular road such a pain to his existence.

The surface was old. The cobble stones had seen their best days, they were no longer straight and aligned, but crooked and jutting upwards, making the road a hazard for bikers and a scourge for all other traffic.

He was a reader, you see. The entire bustrip he would read. He would read even though it was early and his eyes were still tired. He would read even though the lights of this old bus were less than stellar. He would read even though there were often very noisy people on the bus. He would read so he would not have to sit and stare at the grey and dull landscape that showed itself in all its unglory outside of the dirty windows of the bus.

The bad state of the cobbled road made it impossible to read. He would shake. His hands would shake. His book would shake. His eyes would shake. He would lose his place on the page. He would be unable to continue the sentence. He couldn't read. For 15 minutes of grey, dull, deteriorated road, he'd be forced to just sit there and stare out of the window. He grew to hate that road.

Of course he had made attempts to find something else to occupy him. A portable gaming computer, same problem. Writing, same problem, aggravated even. Listening to music, not enough of a distraction. Socializing with his fellow passengers, they always turned out to be anisocial Iranians, on their way to Allah knows where, definitely not in the mood to talk to him. Or even listen to him talk. He had tried to observe his fellow passengers as entertainment, but antisocial Iranians didn't like that either. At least they were only silently expressive of their dislike. He'd completely put this method of distraction to rest after an altercation with a very drunk white man who had taking his staring slightly wrong. It seemed best to no longer pursue it.

And now this was his latest attempt. Slightly dissapointing so far. He stared out of the window. The bus had stopped at the same red light it always stopped at. There were no pedestrians. No self-respecting pedestrian would be waiting at a red light at this hour anyway. After what seemed like an eternity (cliché, his mind yelled about his internal monologue - clichés are clichés because they work, he yelled back at his mind) the light turned green again and the bus creaked and heaved as it was forced to spring into motion again. To say it sprang into motion might have been an overstatement. He wondered, not for the first time, why they did this to them: so many new, comfortable buses, driving all day long, but for people that had to take the bus at this unholy hour, who were already screwed as it was, they had this old wreck on the road. It didn't seem fair.

The bus hit a particularly nasty bump in the road and his body shook and trembled on his seat. A thrill went through him. Not bad, he thought. He noticed he had a wide grin on his face. The man he happened to be directing it at looked rather disturbed by it. Another antisocial Iranian probably. He looked back out the window. He was feeling it full force now. Not bad at all.

They were almost off the road. The bus stopped at the last red light. It dragged itself forward again, groaning like an old work horse that should have been put out to pasture years ago. It turned left onto the smooth surface of a road that had been paved in recent years. He opened his book. Page 247. He recommenced reading exactly where he had left off when they had turned onto the detested road. Another twenty minutes and he would be at his destination.

Page 272. The bus stopped, he got up, winced a little, grinned again (no more antisocial Iranians or drunk white people, they always got off the bus before his stop), and stepped down the dirty boards of the pitiful bus.

He walked, somewhat awkwardly, the last 7 minutes to his work. All was still dark, he was always the first to arrive. He unlocked the door and walked through the main room into the kitchen without turning on any lights. He lit the kitchen light and squinted against the sudden attack on his pupils. He made the coffee, read the book (nothing interesting happened yesterday evening, but they had to check the book every day), and checked the message board.

Ten to seven. His co-worker would be arriving soon. He exited the kitchen and went to the toilets to light them. He went out again and entered another door, going to the employee toilets. Looking in the mirrow he saw a very tired face. Some sleeping dust (crut, his mind insisted, not being fond of fairy tales and euphemisms) was stuck in the corner of his right eye. He picked it out. He unzipped his pants and sat down onto the toilet. With a grimace and a light groan, he pulled out the buttplug and held it up in front of his face. Black and shiny.

Not bad, not bad at all, he thought.

My spambots don't even try to be convincing

Bobster *Brief aan Jezelf* zegt:
heck, if I'm unemployed by then, we could get into all kinds of shenanigans
Kev (good music / i dance / no good music / i not dance) zegt:
I love that word
Bobster *Brief aan Jezelf* zegt:
it is a great word, I use it as often as I can


Only one more day and I'm off to England!

I am so excited, I barely know what I will do with myself until saturday morning. Except, you know, pack, do last minute shopping, go to the gym, find out I forgot to pack something, race back home, repack, race back to Antwerp, take a bath, shave, and Guineveve knows what else.

But figuratively speaking, I barely know what I will do with myself.

I really need this vacation, for a variety of reasons, and I've been looking forward to it so much, I think I've barely noticed anything that's been going on around me. I actually had a bit of 'vacation' this week as well, unexpectedly, as I fell ill last friday and stayed home from work. I did return on tuesday, dragging my ass over there in the morning, but I wasn't feeling quite well yet, and I was coughing and sneezing. My pregnant co-worker wouldn't let me near her, I couldn't cut fruit for the kids, and everyone was sort of worried I'd infect a preschooler, so my boss sent me home, which I get. But I have a cold, and it's not just going to evaporate, and I didn't feel like going to work every day, sitting on the bus for two hours, to then be send home after being there 30 minutes, so I got a doctor's note for the entire week, and it's done me good.

Truth is, I'm seriously considering looking for other employment. I still like my job a lot, and I don't really want to quit, but I'm feeling so exhausted from being on the bus constantly, getting up at 4.30 at times, getting home at 21.30 without having eaten anything yet, sleeping at other people's appartments 2 times a week, barely having 'a place to call my own'. It's all getting a bit too much.

I've told myself I'll have a talk with my boss when I get back from England, and make a decision then, but based on how great I feel (despite snot and coughing) after a week of not getting on that damn bus, it would seem I owe it to my health to find something else.

Anyhow, I'm sure I'll have something more interesting to blog about when I actually get back from London, so 'till then, my pretties.

Cheers!

Wanted: Alternative looking gay male between 18 & 25, must have large penis.

K_x (good music / i dance / no good music / i not dance) zegt:
ik zie nog steeds geen blog update!
Bob *I'm a Horny Little Teapot* zegt:
seg sjoe, 'k zen wel druk bezig vo m'n werk eh
Bob *I'm a Horny Little Teapot* zegt:
wow
Bob *I'm a Horny Little Teapot* zegt:
where did that come from
K_x (good music / i dance / no good music / i not dance) zegt:
from your feminine side?
Bob *I'm a Horny Little Teapot* zegt:

great, my feminine side was raised on the Luchtbal

Something I forgot to mention last time. Last week I saw something rather touching (if you're into that anyway). I was at the Aldi, the one between Kasteelstraat and Mechelsplein, should you know it, and it was packed, which sucked, because all I was getting was a bottle of bubbly water. Anyhow, the line was of course terribly long, and I was behind a little old lady, the stereotypical old lady, you can imagine something, grey skirt, slightly blue perm, that type, and in front of her was a Moroccan woman, also the stereotypical kind, headdress and all.

Anyhow, the Moroccan woman came to the check register, and after her articles were scanned, it turned out she didn't have enough money to pay for them all, so the cashier rudely started to take things out (okay, of course she wasn't gonna give them with her, and yes, I'm sure she gets that sort of thing several times a day and it gets annoying, but she could've at least given the woman a chance to choose what she wanted to leave behind). The stuff she took out didn't seem all that important for the quality of life and stuff, and the Moroccan woman knew better than to complain so no problem there. Then the old lady paid for her articles and told the cashier to throw in the discarded stuff from the other woman, which the cashier greatly appreciated (ah, goe, dan zenekik dervanaf se madammake). Without saying a word, little old lady took the articles and deposited them into the Moroccan woman's bag. Moroccan woman looked up in grateful surprise and began to remonstrate how that really wasn't necessary, old lady didn't say anything and walked out swiftly. Moroccan woman just found time to yell 'thank you very much' with a smile on her face.

And I thought that was sort of sweet. And somehow hopegiving-ish (though I have no clue what I'm hoping for then).

The only thing that sucks a little is... that it didn't occur to me for one single second to do the same thing that old lady did.

I suppose it's easy to think of yourself as a nice, caring person as long as you're only nice and caring to your friends. I'm not saying we should all be paying for people's groceries at the Aldi, but I felt just a tiny little bit ashamed that I didn't even think of helping the woman out.

Unexpected snoggage and Julien getting hurt: just like old times.

K_x (good music / i dance / no good music / i not dance) zegt:
you're a bit of a sadist, aren't you?
Bob *I'm a Horny Little Teapot* zegt:
no, I just need stuff like that to make it longer
Bob *I'm a Horny Little Teapot* zegt:
uh
Bob *I'm a Horny Little Teapot* zegt:

wait, in connection to sadist, that wasn't the right way to say it

As you may or may not have read over at www.chouxdanvers.be (links will be updated as soon as I am no longer too lazy to do so, have faith), I had quite the fun weekend with friends. What was conceived as me and Tim (aforementioned Choux) going for caffeinated drinks (btw, being a coffee addict, it was shocking to me that I could order a beverage of the sort, specifically an iced coffee, and find it so distasteful that I left half of it on the table), somehow, by no fault of mine whatsoever, and anyone who dares insinuate differently is a vicious babykilling liar, turned into a night of slumming.

Whilst Tim has a link to the Wikipedia article considering slumming, which is very insightful I'm sure, allow me to try and explain briefly what I mean by slumming. Obviously, considering my last two sentences, this will be anything but 'briefly'. I simply must stop reading Charlotte Brontë, but more on that later, unless I should forget, or become weary of the subject.

Anyhow, slumming: to hop from gay bar to gay bar, particulary those that would by most people be considered as trashy. This requires extensive amounts of alcohol, and at least one friend to accompany you (otherwise it's a little sad and a lot less fun, unless you're looking for anonymous and easy sex, in which case: you go boy!), although it is best to have a whole flock of them.

So, for the ample amounts of alcohol, we directed ourselves to the Happy Hour at Hessenhuis, and applied ourselves to the necessary ingestion of beverages. Our party by now consisted out of Tim, Kevin, Kenneth, Julien, Karolien and yours truly. Having taxed Karolien beyond what she could bear, seeing as she detests Hessenhuis, we took our leave of this fine establishment, where we spent so many nights of youthful folly (though seeing it now, one wonders why), and betook ourselves to the Van Schoonhoven Straat, colloquially known as the Rue Vaseline, and entered the Twilight, being the bar least offensive to said lesbian. After administering more drinks to our party, we headed further down the seedy underbelly of gay Antwerp by heading towards the Rubbz, but underway our companion, Julien, was unfortunately besieged by gravity, resulting in injuries whose seriousness he could not quite appreciate until the next day, when his beer-fueled bliss of ignorance had withdrawn its soft wings. At Rubbz(z?) we enjoyed many an intellectual discussion, and bonded, perhaps in some cases more than we are accustomed to, but life is after all about change (or so I muttered to myself as events unfolded). For further details on this bonding, I must again refer my dear reader to the webpages of my esteemed friend.

After having been left by Kevin, the remainder of our party retreated our steps to Twilight, where we were soon left by Tim, Kenneth and Julien, leaving me and my ladyfriend to drink, gossip and bond(though in an appropriate manner, naturally), before I delivered her safely at the nightbus stop.

The next morning, after having enjoyed not nearly enough of the sweet oblivion of sleep, I presented myself at Kevin's promptly at eleven, this valued gentleman being ready as well, but some other members of our debaucherous group were lacking until a later time. Eventually we managed to get underway to Karolien's, where we were treated to a delicious brunch (of which I partook in no small measure), before being joined by our old acquaintances Bert & Bart, and our other companion, Frank, for a cosy afternoon of fun and games. Naturally, Tim and I were victorious, but any astute reader could have anticipated this without taxing the utmost depths of his or her cerebral masses.

After having been left by Bert, Bart and Frank, the rest of us headed to the center of that glorious city of Antwerp to consume vast amounts of pizza, and then Karolien, Kenneth and I wandered around the Schelde and took silly, sleepy pictures until the sun had almost set, and it was time for us to return and seek our respective abodes.

The rest of the week was passed with working, Easter holiday giving me plenty to do, and I also found time to lay around in the park and catch some rays of Apollo, who seems to have immediatly done me the kindness of burning my visage, once again proving that I can be pale or crimson, but never tan.

On monday I starred in the grand play I wrote, Lieve & Leed, a soap opera, about a boy and two girls and the quirky misunderstandings between them. Naturally this was enjoyed by all, especially our littlest ones, who shouted with glee, and now stubbornly insist in calling me 'Joeri', which was my character's name.

Today I passed another rather enjoyable day, being the Search Hunt thing for our 6 to 8 year olds (termed by us as the Sloebers), which Anke, Leslie and myself presided over. Our dear chil'ren had to search the vast town of Zandhoven for clues and perform perilous assignments (they were not meant to be perilous, but leave it to a child to somehow slam into concrete, get scratched up by bushes or bash into another child with disastrous consequences) in order to win the reward (popcorn during the movie they would get to enjoy that afternoon). Usually there are always a few who don't feel like doing the activity, and they never fail to show their displeasure, leading to us adults becoming cross, the activity becoming an arduous duty, and no one enjoying themselves. Today, however, it chanced that the greatest troublemakers in this area were absented, or otherwise engaged, and we had a very motivated group that came along with us. As I happed to be rather popular with this specific age group (do not ask me why, I have not yet figured out what it is that endears me to them), they all wanted to hold my hand, carry my backpack, carry my papers, and basically, make my job as light and easy as it possibly could be. Add to that a sun pleasantly shining down on us, and you have quite a lovely work-morning.

Whilst the past weekend was a lot of fun and games, it's also made me reflect once more on friendship, and what time can do to it. I know this is a team I return to so often, it becomes tedious, but it always surprises me how many things can change, almost imperceptibly. When you look upon our little group of friends, compared to years ago, you see not so many changes: people have disappeared, some have made returns to the fold, no new people have really gotten among us. We all have 'new', other friends of course, from school, work, hobbies, but they are 'separate' to our little group. We don't hang out as a group as much any more (though lately we seem inclined to do so more), but we see each other a lot in a variety of combinations, and it's actually these combinations that are very interesting to me. Despite still having the same friends, the emphasis between us seems to have shifted somehow. To take me and Tim as an example: when we first met, to me he was really just Karo's friend. I think we already knew each other for almost a year by the time we had an actual conversation. He was one of those friends that I saw frequently, whose company I really did enjoy, but with whom for years, I did not do a anything with, sans the rest of the group. It wasn't until recently, and that even by a coincidence really, that we began spending more 'solitary' time together, and as it turns out, that's quite enjoyable time. Odd thing is, during all those years, I never literally thought 'oh no, I am not going for a drink with Tim alone', but somehow it still didn't happen (this may be mostly my fault, as I do tend to stick with the old familiars and will very rarely invite someone for a "private" drink or chat, unless that person has asked me first, or we've been somehow thrown together.)

Okay, I'm done rambling, mostly because tedium and sleepiness have settled over me, but I suppose I must return to Charlotte Brontë, since I said I would.

Charlotte Brontë is, of course, an author and one of the Brontë sisters, who published books under male pseudonyms. I've read two of her books (Jane Eyre and Shirley) and am currently nearing the end of a third, Villette.

Brontë actually studied and taught at a pensionnat in Brussels, and Villette, the city where the book takes place, is a pseudonym for our capital. A lot of the book is actually an attack on our boorishness, our unattractiveness, and our stupid Catholocism of back then (yes, there are times when even the least patriottic of Belgians will be just about ready to toss the book right in Brontë's face, but seeing she's been dead for a good long time now, it would be a hard feat to accomplish).

Other than that it tells the story of Lucy Snowe, a woman down on her luck, who is near stoic, and suddenly departs England for Brussels and becomes a teacher at a girls' boarding school. Here she meets, through unfathomable coincidences of course, personnages from her past, and she also meets new people. Together these shape her life in this strange and boorish new land, with its odd customs and repressive religion. Of course there are also romantic entanglements and mental anguish and so on and so on, but that's not really the point of my telling you this.

The point instead being, that Brontë is very prone to using astoundingly elaborate language, taxing the comprehension of the English language to the utmost (mine anyway), and she regularly throws in French phrases, and sentences that refer to other literary works or parsonnages (I can only say Bless Penguin Annoted editions, or many of these would have been lost on me). In Villette, the story is actually told by Lucy Snowe herself, and even more than in the other two books, she uses extremely florid language, and clearly, this has affected me, as I seem to no longer be able to utter a short, to the point sentence (something I was never very good at to begin with). Hence the explanation.

Anyhow, a good night to all, and to all a good night. May we meet again soon.

Cheers!