Nurturing the inner wanker

I have been trying unsuccessfully to write about the err.. "hotel" or "resort" I was staying in in Egypt (neither word is seems appropriate - if you imagine a combination of telly tubby land, the island in "The Prisoner", the hotel in "The Shinning" and "Apocalypse Now" but in the desert then you are getting close) but the place was so mind-bendingly obscenely surreal I am not sure if I can just yet. Give me a few days to recover ok.

So rather than let the blog go dead I thought I would tell you about what a wanker I am.

When I say certain things to people I can see what they are thinking.

For example I say to someone "I live in Islington" "That's nice - expensive around there isn't it?" they say - but I know they are thinking "Hmm... wanker."

I say to someone "I work for an Investment Bank" - they say "That's nice - must pay well" - but I know they are thinking "Hmm... wanker."

But really I am not. I am really not your typical Islington merchant banker. I love fury little kittens, honestly I do. But the other day I had a moment of self wankiness realisation - I found my inner wanker.

I have a open fire in my flat and it is getting a bit chilly recently so I decided to light a fire. Before anyone says anything - I know it is illegal but I have a valid environmentally sound reason for doing it. The 50 year or so old law was made back when most people heated their houses with coal and the resulting sulphur dioxide caused many health problems and the infamous pea soupers. So it really should not apply to wood fires as they produce far less sulphur dioxide plus wood is a renewable energy source and the carbon has already recently been taken out of the atmosphere so technically they are carbon neutral. Environmentally friendly and cosy - perfect.

Anyway I am merchant banker from Islington so I can do what the fuck I like. Laws don't apply to me.

Now I grew up in the country and going out to get wood generally meant a hearty and healthy trip to wood tooled with axe and saw. But this is London - there is only an urban jungle out there. But hey I am bright, resourceful and determined - how hard can it be? So off I trot.

After peering a in few skips, making a couple of inquires I get a lead - apparently there is a garage on the Holloway road that sells wood by the bag. So I jump on a bus and I am there in flash and sure enough it does - it has even been chopped up for you. I wait for the bus to take me back but it doesn't come - it probably got lost or broken. So I hail a passing black cab but being a black cab the driver is a cunt so it sails right on past. Behind the cab is a limo - one of the those bland black corporate ones that are usually seen driving important looking business people to airports. It pulls over - the driver is between jobs and toting for a bit of extra business - so I hop in.

So there I am returning from my "wooding" trip in my expensive designer shirt, my jeans made of the finest Japanese cotton with a bag of wood next to me for my genuine Edwardian fire place in a fucking leather clad limousine.

"Hen," I think to myself "you're a fucking wanker!"