I think I might be beautiful

A new home

2006-06-05T14:28:00.000+01:00

I am so sorry, dear friends, for my terrible inactivity.

I have been running from the notoriety of my dreadful beauty.

In desperation, I have changed my very being in order to secure my person.

You, my loyal beauty-lovers, can find me here

It is in this location that you will find me forthe foreseeable. It remains, of course, our secret.

Suhme fuhcking cuhnt

2006-05-26T12:48:00.000+01:00

I think you should all read about a twat on this very worthy site. Uh.

The return of beauty, part 2

2006-05-12T14:09:00.000+01:00

And so the story of my amnesiac walkabout continues...

I was standing quite, quite still, when an upsetting creature approached. I maintained my wondrous immobility but she was not deterred.

'Beauty,' she murmured. 'Mercy heaven yum it's beauty.' And then she tried to kiss me.

A pain rent my head. Memories flooded forward. Deep within in me, identity stirred.

I cried my joy and the echoes resonated across three continents. At last I knew who I was again.

A moment later, so did she.

Catharsis. Release. Joy.

My mouth moved numbly, clumsily trying to shape a long-forgotten sound.

'oooohhh'
'eeehhhh'
'eeuurgghh'

Tears streamed down my handsome face as the effort of recollection tore at my lips. And suddenly, wonderfully, I was calm. I took a deep breath, looked up to the recently-revealed sun and roared my triumphant return to the wind.

'UUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!'

Uh.

The return of beauty, part 1

2006-05-11T11:14:00.000+01:00

I'm so sorry, my children. Have you seen that film called 'Pretty Woman'? And can you remember the bit where Richard Gere runs up the fire escape to her appartment, despite being afraid of heights? Well this was more like that bit in the first Lord of the Rings film where Gandalf appears to have died, but then comes back even more beautiful than before.

Let me explain what happened.

I was out drinking with some cool guys I know

Just having fun.

Thing is, with these friends sometimes it gets a bit dark. We were kind of tipsy, and then we started dressing up. Little did I know that my friend George had decided to bring a memory wiping neck fazhangler along 'as a joke'.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Not. I've been missing for two fucking weeks.

Things became a bit hazy

and when I awoke I had no memory of who I was. A mixture of the enchanted neck brace and my natural excess of testosterone meant I was unrecognisable, even to myself.

Who was I?

I wandered and I wondered, and even as I did I marveled at my own felicitous wordplay. It was just too, too delightful!

But still I was lost.

I stayed this way for many days, and I might never have recovered - let alone returned - had an unsettling incident not occurred. I'll tell you about it soon. For now, let me rest, and rejoice in my return.

Chairs I've known

2006-04-26T14:16:00.000+01:00

My dear old grandma, the most beautiful woman in her village, used to have a rocking chair. She'd sit me on her knee, try to keep her lips from mine, and rock me to sleep. As my beauty developed my fortunes, I hankered after a chair of my own, just like my grandma's. And one day, I bought one.

I called it my rock-hard abs chair.

Eventually my buns bored right through the seat of that lovely chair, and I was beautifully sad at its passing. So much so that I went right out there and bought a new one - just as you replace anything once you're done with it, right?

But I was still SAD, y'know? So I bought a soft and comfy sofa-chair: somewhere I could lounge in a still-softer silk shirt and look meaningful. I called it my comfy-melancholy-dandy chair.

That broke too though, moulding itself to my beauty but in so doing losing its special softness.

Years passed and I knew many different chairs. And one day I thought I'd found the perfect one. I'd sit, sit, sit on it all day long, happy as a beautiful young lark.

But there was a problem. Such a problem.

You have seen the effects of beauty such as mine: just because one woman has me, does not mean others don't yearn for me. Ask my poor wife. Only you can't, unless you're an exceptionally talented spirit channeller! Because she's dead. I have told this story already.

So it was with the chair. If ever I got up, someone would sit in my place, comfortable and relaxed in its warm embrace, the receding imprint of my beauty still more than a memory. I tried to bear it, but one day I cracked. Some situations are simply too much to bear.

There I sat, in perfectly-assmebled, high-cheekboned comfort; and suddenly, she was behind me!

YEEEOOWW!

A nipple tweak is a nipple tweak, no matter who's doing the tweaking, and this is one natural beauty who does not like to be tweaked. I tried to control myself, but in the end I did what I always do. I snapped at the little minx.

"Take That!" I yelled

As I mockingly impersonated her favourite boy band. Uh.

Marrow looks out for his buddies

2006-04-25T13:07:00.000+01:00

So the other day my phone goes and I’m like "Uh?" It’s a friend of mine.

"Hey Marrow," he asks, "What are you up to?"

And I’m like, "Right now? Showing off my guns."

Uh.

Anyway, he wants to go out. I love this guy, but he drives me crazy. Always on at me - it's like "Hey, Marrow, update your blog. I don't care if you're ill or busy or whatever, I want to hear your stories." I tell him I’ll think about going out.

The real trouble is, like a lot of my friends, he’s jealous of the looks. What he wants, more than anything, is the kind of attention I get. Every time I hit the beach, say, it’s "Quick! Look away, he might not spot us."

And I get bored of that. But someone less beautiful craves that kind of fuss around them. I just know he’s going to be hard work – this time it’ll be "Hey, Marrow, look at me! Look what happens when you wear a cow’s skin to a PETA convention!"

And then it’s like, "Oh really, what happens? Let me guess - you start to get your ass kicked and then someone beautiful has to step in?"

And then what? The Beautiful One doles out so much punishment that he gets himself arrested and is forced to wear a beauty-restricting face mask as a punishment for the rest of his days?

So instead I’m like, "No, let’s just head round mine – I’ve really got to give you a talking-to. Come round in an hour- I need to set everything up."

"Cool," he says, until he sees what I've got planned.

Uh.

Uh.

2006-04-19T21:15:00.000+01:00

Don’t go thinking that celebrities behave any better around me. This week, some singer invites me round to look at some of her new paintings. How harmless could that be? Anyway, I get to her house, and as soon as she shows me the first one, I can see where this is going

But I’m still just like - uh. Of course she can’t drop it – how about it Marrow? You and me?

Again, all I can do is be like UH. You can guess the conversation:

BS: Please! Just give it to me...just once.
BM: Why should I treat you any differently to any other woman on Earth? No.
BS: Please!
BM: No. Besides, you have a husband, and he is very beautiful – almost as beautiful as me.
BS: Really?
BM: ...Yes.
BS: Really?

BM: Yes.

Ok, I cracked. What, I'm supposed to keep a straight face? Next thing I know, he’s right there, getting smart at me.

I am only human. I try to be the best person I can be. I offer game masterclasses to disadvantaged children

I heal injured animals, through the medium of pure beauty

But when I turn, that’s it

There was only ever going to be one man leaving that house with a smile on his face. K-Fed? K-FED????

Uh, more like.

Battling the demons

2006-04-12T15:51:00.000+01:00

When I was a young beauty I was always looking over my shoulder, imagining someone fitter would steal my crown.

As I grew older I went through a phase where I couldn't sleep for worry. 'Hey Marrow,' someone would shout up to my window. 'There's a guy in the block opposite who's got all his own teeth.' They KNEW. They KNEW I worried and they KNEW I had to know. And so I would spend my days casually loitering, appearing uninterested, secretly hoping for a glimpse of my supposed nemesis.

I learnt techniques to cope, practised relaxation, honed my beauty. But still I would challenge people to impromptu beauty parades, or involve myself in meaningless battles. To this day I cry as I remember a 246-day sitting-up-straight contest with a particularly doughty looker.

He cracked first, but neither of us was ever the same again.

It has been nerve-wracking, but gradually I have realised that I don't have to worry and I don't have to be afraid. Why go through your life scared? Even now, sometimes I think to myself 'Hey Marrow...y'know, maybe there IS someone out there who's more beautiful than you,' and at times like these I have to think really hard. But you know what, I'm older now - older and wiser. So my reaction to the very thought these days is much more like

Uh.

Insecurity

2006-04-06T15:00:00.000+01:00

People meet me, read my thoughts, look at my features, nibble my nuts, and they're just like: 'Is there anything about you that isn't perfect?'

Well DUH! You think that I don't hurt? That I don't worry? That insecurity doesn't eat away at me every second of the DAY? Huh? Well it does. Let me give you a few examples.

1. I'm walking along on a new spring day, and I'm surprised by the sudden heat. So I'm like, what's gonna refresh beauty on a day like today?

Yummy. But then some guy shouts out something like 'Hey fatty! Love the gut!' And you think that's like water off an elegant swan's back? Du-du-du-DUUUHHH! NO! I rushed straight home and did a quick check, of course.

Phew. Still there.

2. I'm chilling in my jacket, and some dickweed suddenly yells 'Hey gorgeous! Love the withered arm!'

And I suppose you think that I'm just like 'Uh.' Well, actually, uh uh: I'm not. Instead, I rush home and check the guns, to see if they're still functioning ok.

BANG BANG, BITCHES! Bang bang!

3. I'm sitting around feeling kind of cute and melancholy

thinking: mmm, jumpers are like, SO nice. And this guy shouts out 'Hey pretty boy! You don't look completely gorgeous in that jumper; I only have a SLIGHTLY firm feeling in my pee pee, so fuck you.'

And you think I can just go, like, oh ok, I'm only much better than average looking?

Incorrect.

A night on the town

2006-04-04T23:29:00.000+01:00

Yeah, it’s dangerous sometimes. No, not for me, you dumbass. Like, I dunno, the time I went to the Annual Capoeira and Tantric Fitness 2006 Ball. I get introduced to a lady – or rather she introduces herself to me. I’m not thinking, and without any consideration I acknowledge her. Hell, I did worse than that: "Enchante"

I think she’ll be cool enough to deal with my game. Yeah, I know. Crazy. I start talking about existentialist philosophy, about the telling second person narrative pattern that marks out Camus' "La Chute" as one of the boldest Twentieth Century philosophical tracts. Ok, I’m guessing there’s not a dry panty in the house, as I discuss some more interests – my diet of George Foreman-grilled salmon steaks with hand-sifted cous cous and sliced avocado, my recent expedition in the Hymalayas, the aesthetics of decorating my London, New York and Paris penthouses – but this girl seems to be coping.

Next thing I know, she’s muttering something about dying happy, about how it’s only ever going to be downhill from here, and off she runs

Yeah, I should have seen it coming. I was supposed to give a talk to the society about my moves, and exactly how fit they make me

but one look at the audience told me they weren’t there to listen to my beautiful words

so after that, I had to head home. No respite there – the living room was the same as ever.

Hell, I had to just go out with my buddies and blow off some steam. We went for a drink, and let me tell you – those guys can stick it away. I was struggling

and between you and me, I think they’re a little jealous. They tell me it’s time to play a game. We head to a nearby hill, they put me in a pipe and start telling me they’re going to roll me down. It’s like: how beautiful are you when you’re repeatedly spinning at 150 kph? Funny thing is, the answer seemed to be very. If anything, the faster I went, the fitter I looked:

It’s like some kind of crazy sex physics or something. I don’t know. Anyway, I reach the bottom of the slope, get out, and I gotta tell you, they’re worried. What’s he going to do? Was I about to ruin their collective shit? Tricky one. At first, I was just like, "It’s over for you." They soiled themselves. But these guys are my boys, at the end of the day. So I walk over; they’re cowering…and just before they run scared I’m like

Bang Bang. We laughed. Then we had fun after that. It was beautiful.

Peaceful Weekend

2006-04-01T18:36:00.000+01:00

So the other night a friend of mine came round. She said we should – yeah, I said "she". It can work. I just have to be careful. I mean, this one time I was round her’s, she left the heating on for too long, I take my jumper off, don’t notice the position I’m sitting in, and all of a sudden it’s like

welcome to The Gun Show. You guys can guess the rest: she’s all

up in my face, and I’m so outtathere, before she embarasses herself. I run outside: of course all her friends are waiting for me

So I’m lucky to get away in one beautiful piece. You know how it is. Well, you don’t, but take it from me: it’s not fun.

I’ve deviated from the point.

The other night a friend of mine was round, and she said we should pick up a six-pack, and go fishing. I’m just out the shower, drying my hair and don’t hear her too well, so at first I’m thinking, "Six-pack? Uh."

"Oh, you mean beers." I make funnies like this sometimes – guess it’s one of the perks of being the fittest man on the planet.

Anyway. The fishing was all too predictable: she didn’t catch a thing, but within five minutes I was done

Must’ve been a girl fish or whatever. Anyway, a pretty sweet weekend – no one had their shit ruined by me, no one pissed me off – and what’s more I gave up smoking just to please CapGemini.

Yeah, that's right. No cigarette. Till next time, ladies.

A little something to eat

2006-03-29T17:09:00.000+01:00

A few days back, a friend cooked me dinner. It wasn't the best, so I politely suggested that in future, when we met, we should eat elsewhere.

He was a bit upset at first, but when it became clear that I wouldn't see him - or rather, he wouldn't get to see me - unless things changed, he agreed.

So, on Monday, we decided to eat out. Let's broaden our horizons, I said. Go crazy!

What have you got to lose? So, we decided that we would strut along to a new place that's opened near me. No, I'm not saying where that is - but well done for trying.
This new place had a very beautiful reputation and was somewhere 'to be seen' (where isn't?).

Correct. It's a pygmy restaurant. Yeah, they're small, but I was like, whatever. So I ate and ate, and you know what? It was ok. It wasn't beautiful, but I liked it. Yum, I thought to myself. Yum yum.

The next day I was walking along, minding my own beauty, when suddenly...

Yeah. It rumbled. Through the layers of ribbed, toned ab I felt a distinctly unbeautiful gurgle. Immediately I thought of the potential for embarrassment. I was not dressed for an overflow of rusty water.

12 hours followed in the toilets, shitting through the eye of a needle. Noises that bore no resemblance to my face were heard. Smells that were the very antithesis of my buns were smelt. AY, I thought. Will this never end!

It did. And that night found me atop the roof of that Pygmy restaurant. Some 7 precarious feet off the ground I perched, looking through the glass ceiling at the proprietor as he cackled and bragged, no doubt boasting about all the silly 'big people' who had paid him in order to spend a day shitting battery acid.

Little turd, I thought. And it was the first time all day I'd had cause to use those particular words.

So what did I do to this tiny, evil, boastful little wretch? This vile, disease ridden germ-mongerer? This UGLY little stain? Scroll down to the post beneath to find out.

UH!

2006-03-29T17:04:00.000+01:00

He had sold his last embarrassing ailment.

Wet weekend turns nasty

2006-03-27T16:14:00.000+01:00

On my return from holiday, it strikes me that one thing a lot of people don't know about me is that before I was beautiful, I did karate.

Maybe if I told more people then things wouldn't go bad all the time. But it's not like I can just go 'Hey, the name's Marrow, the face is beautiful, the feet can quell armies': people would think I was a dick. And anyway, mostly I meet people and they're just like 'Oooh, pretty' before I can say anything.

All this is by way of scene-setting. Because on Saturday I went out, and shit happened.

I admit I was dressed casually

but what - is it like, "Hey Marrow, you're not dressed to impress so we're gonna abuse you"? Or is it like "We're gonna shout and laugh like hyenas because you're not conforming to the idea of beauty which you yourself have narcissistically perpetuated"? Or even "We're gonna throw water on you"?

And I'm expected to find that funny?

Because that's what happened. I'm walking along all casual, and these guys are laughing at me. And eventually, one of them empties his bottle of water on me, calling me Priscilla. Well ha fucking ha.

It hurts to be bullied. And you know where it hurts? Inside, where you don't find real beauty, but a different, more fragile, less beautiful kind. But did they care? No. Before I knew it, they'd all thrown their water on me.

Well there's only so much beauty can take. So. I dried myself off, and considered my next step carefully.

One.

"Engarde!"

Two, three. And they were dispatched with karate.

The fourth and final chump started to plead and beg and squeal. "Please, beautiful man. PLEASE!" Well beauty need not exclude mercy. So I told him to run. "Run," I said. And he ran away.

But will he tell all the fools of the world that beauty is not weakness? Will he ask them to leave me in peace, that I may share my art with the less beautiful world?

We will soon know, friends. We will soon know.

For fuck's sake

2006-03-23T20:25:00.000Z

You're on holiday, enjoying the warmth and the break from the pressures of beauty. You lie down on the beach and relax. You turn to your right and you see

Hello ladies. Or rather, goodbye.

A natural beauty always leaves the engine running.

Unfortunately I couldn't shake them off before Yekaterinburg. So now I'm shivering, beautifully.

Tell me I don't do it well.

So much for my beautiful tan, but who knows what bitches Russia may hold. Back soon. Beautifully.

P.S. - At last science has managed to catch up with the symptoms of me.

Breaking my holiday to shine some beauty into your miserable lives

2006-03-22T15:45:00.000Z

[Dictated to the man writing this via the beauty of mobile telecommunications]

I hear there has been something of a reaction to my absence.

Whatever. Beauty needs to rest. And anyway, I can't stay in any one place for too long. You know this. I will be back near the internet soon, I promise, and when I am, there will be more beautifully written adventures for you to read, or just to look at.

But for now, I'm relaxing beautifully, having found surroundings to match my face and abs.

In any case, I know you people all too well. You don't want stories; all you want is this shit.

Yes - I suppose I am really, aren't I?

Uh.

On holiday, beautifully

2006-03-21T11:43:00.000Z

It's the beautiful one's friend here. He's gone on holiday this week and won't be able to post. I asked him if he could send some holiday snaps to keep all the ladies happy and he was just like:

'Uh. Yeah, that might just make a lot of ladies happy. A lot'

So watch this space.

Vagrant beauty

2006-03-18T10:28:00.000Z

I wandered. I know not for how long.

Seconds turned into minutes; minutes to hours; hours to parts of days; parts of days to complete days. Thoughts of my beauty kept me going, but in a world devoid of mirrors and bitches, how long could it last? With nothing to appreciate it, would beauty wither?

Funny idea.

I arrived back in civilisation a shell of a man. Had that shell not been the most beautiful imaginible, I shudder to think what might have become of me. As it was, I soon found a place to stay - a launching pad for my return to a normal life. Gradually I became reaccustommed to the presence and attentions of women. I decided that the best way to speed this process was via titty bars. Titty bars populated by hungry writhers like this one. Dance for me.

My thinking was simple. The titty bars and I shared a common mantra: 'look but don't touch'. I thought that I could rely on the professionalism of these "ladies" to safeguard my beauty from grasping hands.

But there's always someone who has to spoil things. One night, as I sat through my nightly dose of therapy, one of the girls approached me. She introduced herself as the mother of a "blogger" known as Artegall. It was she who introduced me to this world of words.

How nice, I thought: a simple conversation. How nice, she thought: the most chiselled abs I've ever seen. What followed

distressed me.

Whether it was the lack of human company, the shock of being touched or the simple, horrifying contrast between my beauty and her utter lack thereof, I lost my head for a moment; it can happen to anyone. I am a man of passion. Je ne regrette rien.

Her journey was now at an end; for me, a new one was just beginning. Once more, my beauty had brought me great danger. I was on the run again.

I knew I'd forgotten something

2006-03-15T21:59:00.000Z

'What have I done!' I exclaimed, beautifully.

So devoted had I been to the cause of sending the fairer half of this world into quivering, orgasmic raptures, I'd neglected to update this beautiful blog. It was awful: I could have shied away from everyone in embarassment, if only it hadn't made me look so muff-moisteningly cute.

But a beautiful man cannot stay embarassed for long. There were unaraoused people in need: K, CapGemini, beautiful Ron: what would these people do without a Marrow-shaped dose of fitness in their daily life?

'You are beautiful, but you are not a God,' I said to myself. 'You have no right to treat your fanbase like this. Apologise to them.'

'You say that,' I replied, 'But I think "God-like" would be an accurate enough description of my looks, and these people get to look at me for free. They take but never give. Why should I apologise?'

Thus I stayed locked in contemplation for hours. Finally, I opened my eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to five.

Marrow-lovers: I apologise. I neglected you, and it won't happen again. After I wrote this post, I felt even more beautiful, and celebrated in the only way I know how: a relaxing cup of tea and a session watching 'Project Catwalk' on the television, while the mother of a blogger who calls himself 'Leflange' took her opportunity to administer a blowjob.

She did not impress me.

The demise of beauty's other half

2006-03-13T14:54:00.000Z

When I left off my wife was feeling apprehensive. And well she might: I was looming over her with my beautifully large love-piece erect and ready to do my husbandly duty. She was not to know then, as she lay back to learn that pleasure is not to be feared, that this would be the last time she would feel beauty inside her.

I woke the next day with sunshine in my heart. I was free! Free of the grasping attention of all of womankind! Free, in fact, of the chains of my beauty. I threw open the curtain of my hut, and strode outside to find that my lonely, monogamisitc joy was but a fleeting dream.

What you can't see is the pickaxes tucked into their belts. It was an army built for one purpose. For one brief moment all womankind had set aside lusty competition, and joined as one to destroy the thing that had monopolised the affections of their ideal of masculine beauty. They advanced en masse, drawing their weapons and baying for the blood of my spouse.

I tried to defend her in the only way I know how

but even the most beautiful warriors cannot be everywhere at once. As I hacked and slashed my way through the thronging hoard, one skilful amazon escaped my wondrous gaze. From afar she shot and fatally wounded the one woman whom I had believed capable of saving me from my own perfect bone structure.My wife lay dead at my beautiful, elegant feet. It was a time for lugubrious, strong-jawed contemplation. But I was not to be allowed to mourn. The women had achieved their common objective; the race for the prize had begun.

I had to be fast and I was, trusting my beauty and safety to my wing-wheeled chariot.

I had escaped this time. But where would my beauty take me next?

Tag. And beautifully, I am it.

2006-03-10T09:56:00.000Z

I have bad news. The end of the story will have to wait. Let me explain.

A man called Artegall has 'tagged' me on his blog. When I heard this with my beautiful ears, I was flattered - beautifully flattered. I was just like 'Fuck off man. No way. You're shitting me.'

But I wasn't being shitted. Of course, Mr Artegall just wanted to know what makes beauty tick, via means of a number of boring questions. When I realised this with my beautiful mind, I had to think hard. I brooded, I admit it. I damn well beautifully brooded.

And I decided to do it. You deserve to know what makes me who I beautifully am.

Four jobs I've had:

Model
Actor
Model/Actor
Lollipop to the female stars

Four movies I can watch over and over:

Fight club

American Beauty
Thelma and Louise
Arthur on the rocks

Four places I've lived:

Harrow (7 years)
Paris (2 years, before the accident)
LA (12 years)
A perfect body (my entire life)

Four TV shows I love:

Emmerdale
Nip Tuck
The OC
Not Friends

Four places I've been to on holiday:

A private island costing $330k per night, per person, with the cast of Ghandi
A small village in Ethiopia, rebuiling the local economy and curing AIDS by touching people (through beautiful, beautiful , antispetic gloves)
Narnia
Skeggy

Four of my favourite dishes:

Free range French toast with hand-wanked pig bacon and maple syrup
Raw meat
Protein shakes
Me

Four sites I visit daily:

Knowledge enormous (this is a quote from Keats, who mistakenly believed the beauty was truth - not beautiful me)
I think I might be beautiful
Artegall's Castle
Google images

Four places I would rather be right now:

Inside myself
In a threesome with either the blog twins or galatea and hangthedj
Nearer some mirrors
Accessorize

Four bloggers I am tagging:

Bleak Spouse
Aunty Marianne
Gemini Wisdom
K

I am sorry that I cannot finish the story of my wife today. Damn the perfect features and pert buns which draw people to me and make them ask of beautiful me that I answer their foolish questions, in the vain hope that it will bring them closer to beauty. Damn them!

I promise you this day that I will return to her story and do honour to her memory. I swear it. But already I give too much away! Allow me to fade now: allow me to beautifully, beautifully fade.

Fitness: not a walk in the park

2006-03-08T21:55:00.000Z

I was so tired...

The sex had taken its toll. One would have thought that at Hugh Hefner's mansion it was possible for an incredibly beautiful man to kick back, have a few drinks, and relax. I did. Until I started talking to these girls:

It seemed repartee was not on their agenda. I am well-schooled, and well-mannered. They all had to be pleasured. I sexed them tenderly, and shared an equal portion of my beautiful seed with each. After I was spent, they kneeled at the foot of my bed, offering hosannas and words of praise while I slept.

But when I woke, I felt an emptiness in my heart. It was all getting too much. I needed a break. A lack of beauty sleep was in danger of rendering me attractive. I soon hit upon a way that I could keep the fairer sex uninterested - diguise:

Did it work? Did it buggery. Cross dressing merely caused a shift in the male population's feelings for me - from envious admiration to lust. A curse upon my beauty! I ran where I could stand alone from other men, where my looks would not make me a pariah. The Saraha Desert. I thought I had found peace.

But despite the fact that there were no people, I was not protected from the wildlife, which was entranced by what stood before it, and no amount of 70s disco shapes would ward it off:

There was nothing else for it. I ran to a village and married the first person I could find. I was happy with the arrangement - as a taken man, the world's women will have to be happy with the rules: look, and look, and look, and look, and look...but don't touch. She was perhaps less happy, knowing that the weight of the female world's anger was headed her way.

I am too tired now to finish this sad-yet-beautiful story, for beauty is never idle. Please forgive me my human weakness - I will return with the denouement anon.

Tough morning

2006-03-08T12:56:00.000Z

Last night I drank a little too much champagne. Off Jennifer Love-Hewitt's tit-tays.

For this I paid this morning with what the French call 'un hangover'. I still looked beautiful, but I didn't feel beautiful. It was strange. I needed a coffee to make everything better.

And I did feel better. But still, I have to be careful with my features, so I wore sunglasses. And as I was walking along, some non-beautiful, poorly-dressed chump called me out. WTF?, I thought to myself, and looked round to see where he was.

That's what happens when I don't shave for a couple of hours. Doctor says it's to with some kind of excess testosterone which also causes me to have a huge cock. I'm just like, whatever.

Anyway the chump wants a fight. You know the score. A little bit of this:

And a whole lotta this:

Fuckin chump.

Anyway, after that unfortunate altercation I went to work. It isn't easy. But I'm getting by. Day by day by day. Nobody said it was easy being this beautiful - sometimes it's a curse - but I'm here, I'm doing it, and I'm gonna keep going till somebody stops me. I'm resolved.

Oh what a night

2006-03-07T09:30:00.000Z

Jesus what an evening. I was walking home last night and these fucking guys attacked me. I hate violence, but in the end I had no option. I had to fight them.

I treated this as unfortunate, but they need fucking up. As you've probably guessed, the fight was over a woman, the outcome all too predictable.

Or so I thought. 7 sessions and 149 orgasms later (fourteen for me. Yes, it's possible. Just not for you.) I was sat relaxing, debating whether I should wait for her to recover and start again, or call Giselle and get her to fly over.

And suddenly, the motherfuckers burst into my flat. With me all unprepared. So I bareknuckle beat them.

Once I'd smeared their blood on my admittedly perfect torso, and stolen their fags, it was time for bed and another 6,267 orgasms. Oh what a night.

Gordon Ramsey the other night

2006-03-06T10:54:00.000Z

Let me apologise. It was obviously him and I am a twat for ruining possibly the greatest fight ever. Fortunately for me, I look like this:

so I can probably get away with it, and if I can't, who cares?

LADIES LOVE ME! KNEEL BEFORE THE MIGHTY MARROW!

Uh. I love being me.