They don't call it '24 Hour Fitness' for nothing.

There's no better blog fodder than my infrequent trips to the gym. Unless, of course, you include my infrequent relationships with lesbians. Or maybe my penchant for social faux pas. (Wow, I really do a lot of stupid stuff...)

So, I thought I'd share with you something that I did this morning. I went to the gym. It was something I'd not done for some time. In fact, in the month that I'd not been I'd thought to cancel my membership but - and this is the way my mind works - I figured it was a tiny bit less of an effort to actually go to the gym than it was to cancel my membership.

I'd felt terrible about not going for a month, likening the waste to throwing £35 onto the ground. (In the run-up to Christmas even that's going to have to stop.) So, having decided to once again utilise my membership, I was buoyed by a sense of self-righteousness and the relief of not having to admit defeat to Kevin, my idiot instructor.

And so, when I got to the gym early this morning and the door was locked, I convinced myself that I was such an enthusiastic athlete that I was first to arrive. I waited no longer than a few seconds before Kevin came to let me in.

"Oh, how eager am I?!" I said, cocky and from under an oversized wooly hat. (I'd imagined I was Rocky Balboa when I got dressed that morning, but had neither the physique or the appropriate gym gear to pull it off convincingly.)
"Hold on," he said, opening the door. "I just popped out for a minute. Come on in."
As I did, and signed the book, I saw that above my name were others more eager than me. 2 am, 4 am, 5 am, read the 'time-in' column.
"What'd you say, mate?" asked Kevin, from behind the counter.
"Yeah...nothing," I said, pulling off my hat. "Just slept in a bit this morning, that's all."

• The Weights Are The Hardest Part
• Kevin's Head

Has anyone ever told you you look like Ashley Olson?

I tell you what, it's a bloody good job that I'm very secure in my sexuality...

I came across MyHeritage.com via a MySpace profile that had posted a "Celebrity Collage".

As part of its development on face recognition in genealogy (and part gimmick, clearly), MyHeritage.com reads your photo, detects your face and, by way of dubious algorithm, associates it with the celebrities you resemble the most.

I thought I'd have a go.

• MyHeritage

Biscuits keep falling on my head

Lovely though she is, I must apologise on behalf of Myleene Klass, for her soapy breasts and their unlikely appearance on my blog last week. I realise the post was somewhat out of character and I do hope it didn't offend my more conservative readers.

The truth is, I've not been feeling myself recently. Quite literally. I'm undertaking a month long detox, in which I'm abstaining from booze, fags and sex. Some are easier to give up than others. I don't smoke really and it's actually more of an effort to attract girls than to...repel them.

Jesus will tell you however (when he's next in) that temptation is the hardest part. Indeed, my four days in detox has felt like a biblical 40. Short of the devil himself making an appearance I have been plagued with the wicked snares of desire.

The inescapably attractive Myleene Klass is one, appearing bikini-clad and buxom on ITV's I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. A burgeoning social life is another. This weekend alone will see me at a club, a house party and a wedding reception, with orange juice and clarity at each.

As if that weren't enough, junk food - perhaps the hardest thing for me to give up - has practically been falling from the sky. Sorry, has actually been falling from the sky, I kid you not. Yesterday, and not for the first time, I was pummelled by chocolate biscuits as I walked down Princess Street. What's that about? Go down there yourself and you'll see crumbs where I was.

Luckily, I've not reached the stage where the smashed remains of chocolate biscuits have tempted me from my detox. Should the bikini-clad and buxom fall into my lap I might be swayed.

	Sorry girls... I'm breaking my 'no ITV' rule, skipping Celebrity Scissorhands (deciding instead to make a large donation to Children In Need) and watching I'm a Celebrity... Here's why.
So long 'Celebrity Scissorhands!'
Why I'm watching 'I'm a Celebrity'...	Ladies and gentlemen, Myleene Klass.

• Celebrity Scissorhands (BBC)
• I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here (ITV)

Washed Up

When I moved out of my family home into my own place one of first things I bought was a plastic washing up bowl. It's more symbolic than it sounds.

To me, it, and all the new kitchenware I'd bought, represented a new independence and a break from the Indian culture on which I was raised.

I'd never seen a washing up bowl until I went to my girlfriend's house. English people, I discovered, put their dishes in this bowl, soaked them in hot water and, some time later, rinsed them off. It seemed to be the antithesis of the Sisypheon ordeal that was washing up in my house.

My long suffering Mum stood making hot chapatis while we ate, and somehow managed to finish hers first and be at the kitchen sink quicker than we could say alloo sag. (My pronunciation always slowed me down somewhat.)

There would be no after dinner conversation. The trays had to be washed - jaldi, jaldi - before the colourful culinary delights left stains in their steel compartments. Mum would stand, hunched over the sink, scrubbing the trays as they clanked, one by one, before her.

The plastic bowl, I observed, allowed my girlfriend's family to dispose of waste liquid into the sink, whilst keeping the washing up water relatively clean.

It was perfect, I thought. While the dishes soaked I could...listen to Radio 4, read the newspaper, have a glass of wine - do all the things we never did in our house. I could...be white and middle-class. All thanks to a plastic washing up bowl.

It wasn't long, however, after moving into my own place that I began to find the plastic bowl a bit cumbersome. I couldn't get much in it and I didn't get much out of it. It just became another thing to wash up. And while I let things soak I realised that I didn't care much for Radio 4, I never bought the paper and I didn't know how to drink wine without getting drunk.

I took it out of the sink. And my washing up bowl, for some time, became my fruit bowl.

Some say multiculturalism is a melting pot. I think it's more a plastic washing up bowl. And I've decided - and can only imagine its cultural ramifications - that I'm getting a dishwasher.

Borat. And mixing with the wrong crowd.

I went to see Borat for the second time yesterday. But I don't imagine it'll become the multiple viewing experience Superman Returns was. In fact, the first time I went to see it I didn't see it at all. I made the mistake of going on an Orange Wednesday, when mobile phone customers get two-for-one cinema tickets, saw the enormous queue of Borat fans, turned around and walked home.

I was put off, not exactly by the size of the crowd, but by its components. And that sounds like a terribly snobby thing to say. But, to quote the Onion, stereotypes are a real time saver, and just a glance at the crowd revealed a group of people probably unable to separate the irony from the racism, misogyny and anti-semitism of Borat.

The genius of Sacha Baron Cohen's creation is that it makes its point by seemingly embracing these bigoted ideas, turning the mirror on its subjects and making us question the boundaries of humour. When I finally saw the film yesterday I found that my stereotyping was spot on, that the crowd, which I'd tried to avoid by going to the matinee, asked no questions of its humour, instead erupted into hysterical laughter without the slightest delay.

I was, and not for the first time in Shrewsbury, immersed in a crowd with whom I shared little in common. And it made me feel as uneasy as Borat's tasteless gags. If you don't see these as satire, I thought, you are essentially laughing at racism, misogyny and anti-semitism. Were these people, I thought, looking at the crowd, the ones accusing me of terrorism? Calling me "über-gay"?

Is it good satire? It is occasionally. I liked when he lambasted people who deserved to be lambasted (and not just because I like to use the word 'lambast'). The frat boys in the Winnebago were truly horrible racist, sexist bastards. The scene in which Borat fearlessly strides into a Texan rodeo ring and loudly praises his hosts' "War of Terror" to wild applause is brilliantly surreal. But picking on shopkeepers by smashing their cheap antiques or presenting Atlanta folk with a bag of his after-dinner poo is just bullying one step up from Jeremy Beadle.

Is Borat funny? Yes, it is, and fine TV. And perhaps that's how it could have been better enjoyed, on the small screen and with like minded people, with whom I could have been sure to share the joke. But yesterday, I think, I was sitting in the wrong crowd.

• Stereotypes Are A Real Timesaver, The Onion

Greatest Hits

I spent a big portion of last night, horizontal on my sofa, going through my entire blog, assigning labels to every post in its three year history. It was a Sisyphean task. But an enlightening one, in that it allowed me to see the frequency with which I write about certain subjects.

By this study you could say that this is something of a travel blog. There are 43 posts in this category, but that's not necessarily because I travel a lot. It's just that I post a lot when I travel.

I also write quite frequently about dating. It's quite alarming how many posts are labelled both 'sex' and 'faux pas'. That should give you some indication of my prowess. (Still single, ladies. Form an orderly queue.)

So, the next time you're horizontal on your sofa browse my blog by label and you might find, if I may say so myself, some absolute corkers. Like these:

From Travel:

• Postcard from South Beach, Miami
• Postcard from Ohio. That's right. Ohio.
• Postcard from Hollywood

From Dating:

• Dumped.com
• My Mental Girlfriend
• Pretzel Logic

From Music:

• Michael Jackson: The Monster that Lurks Among Us
• Thrilling Me Softly
• Sylvia Plath

My type.

I don't exactly have "a type". I find the whole notion a bit non-sensical. Beyond the obvious physical attributes (attractive, please) surely we all want to meet someone who is funny, interesting and smart, etc. (I doubt there is much demand for the sombre, dull and dumb.) Besides I've learnt, in this town, not to be so picky.

There is one attribute however that I assume most people demand in their prospective partners. And that is a compatible sexual orientation. It's an important quality sure, but one that, for some reason, I seem to have difficulty finding.

I didn't find it last weekend. And I'm beginning to wonder if my type is, in fact, lesbian. Or whether I am so metrosexual - so far from the alpha male - that I am considered attractive by the lesbian community. Or even, ironically, so often perceived as gay that my own gaydar is somewhat faulty. In any case, and to quote Larry David, I am a "friend o' lesbians".

It started in 1997 with my first girlfriend, who - you could say - played the butch to my femme. She whipped me in sports (though that's no great feat), she wore her hair shorter than mine and spent an inordinate amount of time with her best friend. She is now, incidentally, a pro-golfer. And full-time lesbian.

More recently I dated a lesbian that I found on match.com. Her profile read, "22-year-old woman...seeking women 18-35." Remarkably, she said, I was just her type. Needless to say, it didn't work out. I guess something got between us.

And then, of course, last weekend. And Sarah. And although I'm off the dating scene at the moment I was happy to meet the delightful Scotswoman and publisher of My Little Pony magazine. And, while I doubt her job has anything to do with her sexuality (unless My Little Pony is some sort of horrible euphemism), I was quite surprised when she asked me out and even more surprised when I heard the next day that she was gay.

With the news I began to piece together the evening. And it's a wonder I didn't work it out for myself. She did have rather boyish hair, she dressed not unlike KD Lang and, of course, she was into me. There was a point in the evening when we were dancing and she grabbed me by the hand and sort of twirled me around. "I'm sorry," she said with a laugh. "I'm used to being the lead." I didn't think much of it at the time. But now it makes complete sense.

• Dumped.com