Three days to go. Three days to go. I’ve raped my contact lists, molested Facebook and categorically fumbled all over Twitter. Vote for me! Vote for me! (I can now type those words faster than my own name).
But my reach is limited. I don’t rack up friends of friends of friends of friends of…(you get the picture), just to swell my address book…but now I wish I had.
I am the Tiny Tim of social networking. I am a ZX Spectrum trying to cross a busy road of shiny Macbooks. Even when I look in the mirror, it comes out pixilated. But I am trying.
3 days to go until Ibiza. Mission: find a mankini.
I promised the online community (and several branches of the Salvation Army) that if on the first day of voting, I got to 200 votes, I will vow to don a mankini in a top Ibiza nightspot.
Do I regret pledging to do that? Yes. Will I regret it futher? Yes. Will Big Dave suddenly develop strange new feelings for me? Hopefully not. Do I like Caramac? Not relevant.
A fancy dress shop. Will they let me try one on? If so, does that mean some other sweaty oaf has already tried it on? Am I mixing groinal juices with a sweaty carbuncle of a man called Graham? OK, I won’t try it on. I’ll just trust it has the elasticity, integrity and sheer cubic metres to maintain the sum total of my manliness. Actually, looking at pictures of them, I suppose they are a sort of organ-hoist; a gravitational solution for the slabs; a slingshot for the holy walnuts. They’re designed to cope with reproductive stature.
How can I pay for a mankini on credit card? Credit cards are for proper grown ups, and here I am, with a face as deadpan as a slapped bulldog, paying for a piece of cloth that will make me look like a gay caveman with my grown up credit card. I hope this is all worth it…
Come on…you could vote for someone who buys a nice brown hat and films it…or you could vote for a great slathering hunk of white flesh wobbling like an uncertain marshmallow in a mankini…VOTE FOR ME!! http://onthebeach.blog.qype.com/?page_id=11