August was a month for moaning it appears. I had remarked on the fact that a blog is an ongoing narrative and therefore requires the finest in writing material to keep the people coming back for more and more. Failing that, some lols and writing in txt speak about how everything is that funny brown stuff that falls out of my bottom.

I had gotten tired of the homeless people taking one look at my shoes and deciding I have money. If they saw my bank balance, that would say actually, he doesn’t. It’s at the point now, where basically I’ll have start thinking about asking them for a spare 50p.

I had even found the time to get jolly upset at the fact that most central London shops catered for only those people who had less fat in their bodies than celery.

OK, I’m a chubby f**ker who’s life involves not women, wine and a cigar as most people in this cosmopolitan slab would believe, but mounds of greasy bacon smothered in Angel Delight fried in sugar. Well I guess that hasn’t changed right now, but there is jelly in the fridge waiting for my gorging body to consume and that’s light….but I digress.

Food and I have an unhealthy but working relationship. I buy it in huge quantities, and in return, it lets me stuff it down my arena-sized gob. There’s not much talking, and there are no questions asked. All legal too.

I’ve been this size for a large amount of time, pardon the pun, and therefore have been used to knowing which shops tend to stock items which fit, for example, the NEXT chain of stores in the UK are great for tops of all shapes and sizes.

But if I were to try and fit into their range of trousers and jeans, I would cut off circulation to the man-sacks and proceed to walk funny. Still I guess where there’s a will, there’s a way to avoiding dieting to fit into this crap…

But it wasn’t all tales of fashion woe, for instance, it was the nice fact that the Blog had been in existence for 2 years without being threatened legally to remove content. It was around the same time I quested around the East End for a tin opener, and ended up with the “Aston Martin” of openers as that’s all that was around. Had no-one heard of pound shops?

But aside from that traumatic experience….err…Mr Michael Stipe from R.E.M. and David Balise, the man who has been taking rude pictures of them for over 6 years, and I met them at a book signing in the capital a week after going to see REM in Manchester which you can read about in all it’s glory here, along with various pictures of people we met.

Still one of the best things I ever did in August, and even though he seemed to act seriously for anything, I was still glad to meet the lead singer of one of the best bands on the planet as far as I’m concerned.

Oh and this is still one of the best pictures of a sight in London I’ve taken;

Soho presented a lorry load of surprises along with seeing lots of famous people again, throwing dirty underpants at the FA’s headquarters, and then that Soho Pride thing which was a surprise for someone who was not looking for “action” at that time, and when being presented with over friendly gentlemen, I decided the best course of action was to run away.

That’s all for now campers, tune in next time when we return back to the present to remark on the current state of affairs and to answer the question of whether or not I have my own centre of gravity. Toodles!