Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Friday, December 05, 2008

Grab A Tool And Start Banging

The best thing about living in an 'up-and-coming' area is not the increase in property prices, the sudden appearance of dolly little boutiques or coffee shops, but the sheer number of builders you have to walk past on a daily basis. I just trolled past a delectable duo of them hanging off some scaffolding and, bless, they were trying to do maths. It was like chimps trying to figure out the Dewey System, or my friend Nick trying to figure out what comes first - underwear or suit. And he's got Altzheimer's.

Incidentally, dear old Nick came out of the closet yesterday. Not that he's gay, no - he in such a bad way he just thought it was a car.

Anyway! Builders. I'm not sure what the fascination is, but by all that is Cher, it exists. Certainly in me and I'm really not sure why. I mean, if it was just the urge to shag anything that lifted-and-carried such weights, I'd be trying to seduce Oprah's triple-E bra. Perhaps it wasn't helped by one of my friends who happened to live around the corner from a certain steam-filled Gentleman's Recreational Club, and so had access to it at all hours. He told of a golden time, around seven thirty of a morning, when all the Polish builders who had left their girlfriends to go work on the buildings around Canary Wharf, would pop in and get serviced by all and sundry. Can you imagine all that undulating muscle? I unfortunately can, and I almost bit the top off my Poochie pen in doing so.

And you tell me that most builders aren't gay. I reckon if there were a fire in a wendy bar, twenty construction workers would pile out, twenty firemen would pile in - we'd just need the motorcycle cops and the Red Indians to complete the set.

I have to say that with all this testosterone in the air, I had the urge to build something. And not my usual three-tier sponge cake with a rather neat job of making dreamy Brad Pitt in icing for the top. So I finally ordered a self-assembly wardrobe for the other side of the bed - the one that Ryan was meant to be temporarily staying in. I think with this latest purchase, we've decided that the arrangement has actually become permanent, and so we celebrated like all good gays do: with flat-pack furniture. To there I was, building away at this thing for four hours to such an extent that my lily-livered, never-done-a-hard-days-work-in-my-life hands were covered in blisters. Four hours! And when I was finished, I was cut, bleeding, blistered and covered in sweat. I felt like a man!

Thankfully, he came home from work about ten minutes later.

Have a good weekend, y'all.


Kezza said...

When you started to mention Polish builders I think I may have started to build a pole of my own, but then the image of a butched up, sweaty, grunting you battling with an Ikea wardrobe filled my mind and that was me done for the day!

Kathleen Bradean said...

I agree. Your entry was hella butch.

Do all your construction workers wear orange t-shirts like ours do? It's so kind of them to color code for quick and easy fantasy reference.

Maus! said...

I love constructing even if it is lego... GROUUURRR

CyberPete said...

Here it's Russian roulette with construction workers. You can be extremely unlucky.

The fantasy is definately more appealing but you'd almost be more lucky with tramps.

Orchis said...

Is it just me or do fantasies with builders invariably involve more than one at a time ?