Oxbridge loons

Hubris abounds.

First thing upon waking, I nipped to the loo for a slash, only to disturb a white fluffy cat taking a dump in my bath.

The fucker must have nipped in through the bars in the open window.

My immediate reaction was to roar at it loudly to make it go away, but it remained squatting in the tub, hissing, bearing its teeth, staring wildly and defiantly back at me while it continued its business.

The fucker had balls, I’d give him that.

There was nothing for it but to rush him.

That did the trick. The cat pissed off quick as lightning from whence he came, through the window bars, the tinkly bell round its neck sounding long after it had leapt from sight and out into the pouring rain.

And there in the middle of the bath lay the rancid momento of his visit.

I really didn’t fancy cleaning the shit up, and I didn’t.

A job for Zosia, when she comes round.

Tom called by at lunch, and kept his finger pressed hard to my doorbell just to annoy me. I let him in. He thought I sported a suspiciously healthy glow.

“You've been rubbing yourself with artificial tan,” he said, accusingly.

As if.

I didn't mention the other day that Tom is a bit of a gym freak, did I? Easily the most narcissistic person I know.

His fragile state of mental and emotional health is directly related to his body fat to muscle ratio.

He'll eat nothing but boiled chicken and slimming pills for weeks to reduce his body fat while he works on his muscle bulk, before blowing all the hard work by bingeing on McDonald’s, curry, beer, weed and mars bars, piling the pounds back on and slipping into a fierce revulsion at his own weak will.

I, on the other hand, have no such qualms about being chronically unfit. Not that I'm in bad shape at all. My fast metabolism means I'm still pretty damn skinny, but I'm sure it'll catch up on me one day. I know I'll never be one of those twats with a perfectly toned booty.

As part of his 'pre-wedding build up' though, Tom has decided to do something about that. Bastard turned up with a complimentary day pass for me to his gym, saying I needed to get up off my arse and get into shape.

Over a shared bong I tried in vain to persuade him it was futile even suggesting I should do exercise ("Some people just aren't meant to be sporty"). He hustled me into a tracksuit and then his car with the promise that there would be 'loads of fit birds there'.

We made like bakery trucks for the gymnasium. On the way he asked if I'd received his email with all the contact details of the 20 odd blokes he wants to invite to his stag weekend, (plus the handful of normal ones, too).

To be honest, I hadn't checked, but lied and said don't worry, I was on the case.

Tom was right, there were an inordinate number of fit lasses at his gym. There were lots of artificially enhanced chicks strutting about too, which put me off a bit.

I attempted a half-hearted workout. A few tugs on a selction of weight machines, a blast on the treadmill which was the best fun, especially the getting off bit. Felt quite trippy.

But I soon got bored (and knackered) and ended up straddling a bike and cycling nowhere, listeing to shit workout music and silent MTV on the overhead monitors wondering what it is with women and fake tits.

I couldn't see any that looked good. They were all so obviously fake. Strictly for those with too much money, no self-esteem and too little brain, I decided.

Oh, the things women do to themselves.

It's the same with their pubes. I just don't get why women wanna get rid of it. It's part of who they are, you know?

Damn, a nicely manicured hedge is sexy.

Zosia came round a few months ago sporting a bald beaver. I nearly kicked her out in the street when I saw it. Her bush had been, until that moment, probably one of her best attributes.

I thought you like better," she said. "I see porn site, all women shave."

"No, no, no, dear," I countered. "I prefers you to look like a real woman, not a pre-pubescent little girl."

"Oh."

"It's just...not cricket."

“I went out with man once,” Zosia said, somewhat downcast. “Victor his name. Dirty, dirty man. Liked eggs. Could do very accurate impression of Cockerel in the morning.”