Queer eye for the fat guy.

Having "outed" myself as a metrosexual, I've done very little to maintain a lifestyle in keeping with the culture. If I were a homosexual it'd be like not liking musicals or not having a small dog. As it goes I'm not. And I really ought not make such sweeping - and possibly offensive - generalisations.

The fact of the matter is, I make a terrible metrosexual. Sure, I moisturise. I use a range of hair products. But my sexuality, my...metrosity is tepid, to say the least.

I'm terribly out of shape, I eat crap and I shop at Topman - almost exclusively. I've never bought an Armani suit, I don't care for fruit and I wouldn't know my yoga pilates from my yoga flames.

I've decided, if I'm going to do this properly, if I'm going to write the "true story of a single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male," I'm going to have to shape up or ship out. (Besides, I figure I can't do much about my being twentysomething or British Indian.)

So tomorrow I'm going for a run.

It's either that or Annie Get Your Gun, a Chihuahua and another closet from which to emerge. But I'm pretty sure it's easier to turn a fat boy slim than a straight guy queer.

• Meet the metrosexual - [Salon]

 

Gone fishing.

I've been writing my little heart out for the past week or so, working on some stuff for the business, hence the somewhat slower than usual blogging.

In fact, I've temporarily relocated to a quiet spot in Ireland, in an effort to concentrate on my words, which, it turns out, was something of a deft move, since I can't understand most of those uttered by the locals anyway.

My business partner and I just had dinner in Kinsale and nodded politely through the specials menu, which we're pretty sure was mostly fish; she had lobster (something I vowed to never do again) and last night we saw a movie called The Squid and the Whale.

It's been like a fishing trip so far. I'm back on dry land next week - expect more stories then!

Budge

Hey, it's just dawned on me that some people may still be visiting my Blogspot even though I've moved. In case you didn't know you can continue my adventures - those of "a single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male" over at www.sansharma.com.

15 minutes

Since the Stephen King/Rob Reiner chillfest, Misery (1990), having a "number one fan" is an altogether terrifying prospect. (A number two or three is fine.)

In the film, a novelist, played by James Caan, is rescued from a car accident in a blizzard, by a particularly fat Kathy Bates. Wait, it gets scarier...

It turns out she's his "number one fan" and has no intention of letting him go. She also lops off his feet with a hammer (don't click this link if you're squimish!).

It's no wonder then that I had cold feet (or any feet at all) when I agreed to meet one of my fans last week. ('One of' suggests there are more; 'one and only' may be closer to the truth.) She'd read my blog, saw that I'd moved to London and wanted to meet up.

Why the hell not? I thought.

Well, there was one prettyyy big reason why not:

• Kathy Bates.

But anyway, I chose to look beyond the Bates and found instead a very charming, not at all psychotic, PhD student.

And it got me thinking, perhaps prematurely, about the notion of fame (and the fifteen minutes of it promised us by Andy Warhol). I realise that it hasn't yet touched me in the same way that it did, say, Princess Diana, but it has sort of tickled me on the nose.

The PhD student knew only a persona, pixelated and preserved on this blog; a "true story of a single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male."

And while one fan does not a fan club make, I imagine it's just a matter of time before I'm shaving my head and checking into rehab, dangling a baby over a balcony ledge, or dying in a high speed car chase in Paris.

That's a lot to cram into my fifteen minutes.

Harry Krishna

My mate, Peter Woods, kindly pointed out that the Harry Potter pictured on the cover of the new book bears a striking resemblance to a certain...me!

It's uncanny! To the point that he actually looks Asian. Check it out.

• Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows [Amazon.co.uk]

Things not to do on a date.

In all the time I've been single (which totals around 18 years), I've learned three things about dating:

1. Don't get hideously drunk.


2. Don't order lobster.


3. Don't arrange a second date in Cyberspace (I'll explain, even though it sounds inexplicable).

Interestingly enough, I learned all of these lessons in one sitting, on a date in Exmouth Market just last week.

1. Don't get hideously drunk.
"Hideous" may be too strong a word, but I was certainly "buzzed." I know this because I started banging on about a half-baked revolution in which we all "just love one another (why can't we just love one another?)." So, as a general rule, try and keep as drunk if not less drunk than your date.

2. Don't order lobster.
"Compliment her on her shoes," Beth advised, before the date. "It's more specific than 'you look nice,' and less cheesy than 'you've got amazing eyes'..."

So, as it turned out, my date did have pretty amazing eyes, but I couldn't get a good look at her shoes from where I was sitting. That was until the waitress came over and offered up the very same compliment to my date. Not wanting her to muscle in on my game (which is pretty sad, when a waitress can do that), I saw my opportunity and chimed in with a perhaps overly enthusiastic, "Yes! Your shoes are amazing!"

I was too late, of course, and my compliment, now really an afterthought, had no real positive impact. It only served to distract me from the real reason the waitress was standing there, complimenting the hell out of my date.

And so, for some reason, I ordered lobster. And then proceeded to wrestle with the animal, break the thing apart and eat its insides across the table from my date.
My advice? Order anything but lobster.

3. Don't arrange a second date in Cyberspace.
So, sozzled and strewn with lobster meat and exoskeleton, I was in no fit state to conclude the date in any way that was appropriate. Instead of suggesting we meet again, that I call, or even that we move to a position more conducive to kissing, I turned away from my date, ever so slightly, pointed over my shoulder and said, "well, the tube's this way," and, "you should, er, Facebook me sometime."

It sounded like something from the Chandler Bing school of shitty dating, updated for the 21st century (dating 2.0, if you will). And as soon as I said it I turned, looked down at my shoes, seasoned ever so slightly with lobster and white wine, and thought, did I actually just say that?

SuperPoke!

When I was younger - maybe 13 - some kind, possibly sympathetic soul told me that when girls were into guys they just ignored them.

Imagine how I got on, all lanky limbs and awful hair, thinking that every girl I passed, eyes glued to the pavement, was secretly admiring me: tall and thin, ugly and assured.

God knows how else I would have made it through my teens.

But 10 years on and I'm beginning to seriously question that small piece of advice. It may have got me through my teens, but it sure as hell won't get me through my 20s.

If it were true then London loves me. In fact, by that logic, I got a whole lot of love at the pub last night. Indeed, it's a wonder I didn't get raped on the Tube home.

Now, of course, you're spoiled for choice when it comes to indicating your interest. Glances on the Tube are generally ill-advised, especially at night. But, ladies, when you get home, why not log on to Craigslist and post about your "missed connection", in the hope that Mr Right-Across-the-Carriage will reply.

Here's one from a few of weeks ago:

Victoria Line, Monday Evening, discussed Harry Potter

Going North on the Victoria Line, sitting across from you, talking to my friend about how we still haven't gone to King's Cross to have our pictures taken between Platforms 9 and 10. You said you bet we'd meet on the train again a week from now, and I still wouldn't have had my picture taken. I said I'd get it done the next day on my way to see the Tower of London.

I only realised later that I should have given you my number.

And you were right, I didn't go to King's Cross - I'm hoping to go with you!

Craigslist is just one way in which you can flirt online. There are, of course, countless other, more explicit ways - and I've already covered match.com's virtual winking feature - but we won't dwell on those sites that charge to do it. Because, frankly, it's pretty sad. I can say that because I've done it.

A more popular, kid-friendly way (though I wouldn't try it with kids) is Facebook's built-in poking device. With it, you can let your 'lover' know that they've been poked when they next log in.

Here's what I saw when I logged into Facebook tonight:

Pokes

You were poked by Meghan Vaughn.

poke back | remove poke

And when I clicked "poke back"?

Poke Meghan?

You are about to poke Meghan. She will be informed of this the next time she logs in.

Poke | Cancel

It's about as far removed from actual poking as you can get. If you've ever been poked by or even poked the person next to you on the Tube (and again, I'd advise against this), there is no option to "remove poke" nor is it wise to "poke back".

And now that Facebook's opened up to third-party applications there are even more ways to poke people. You can use Poke Pro! Super Poke! Party Poke! Pokey Poke! Edgar Allan Poke! The list is endless...

But despite all these options, the third-party application support, the AJAX controls, the JavaScript widgetry, even logging in to see that I've been poked in every conceivable way, I feel no closer to an actual physical connection than I did those years I spent being ignored by girls.

At least when one looked up it meant something. And if they ever poked back, I knew I was in.

Feeling awkward.

For those of you who thought my blog would suddenly become more interesting (as if that's even possible) since moving to London, and perhaps less about mundane adventures, such as boarding a train, playing video games or watching TV, I write with a story that takes place outside of the house and, indeed, the banality of public transport.

That's right. In an attempt to find something more interesting to write about (and maybe - incidentally - have a good time) I went out on Friday night. To a bar.

(I won't even tell you how I got there.)

But I was early. Never one to be fashionably late (or even fashionable, for that matter), I got to Tiger Tiger in Haymarket a good half-hour or so before my friends arrived, giving me ample time to loiter awkwardly by the bar, even smash a glass and act like it wasn't me.

Still, the fracas drew some attention. And I was soon chatting to a South Korean girl who loitered with just as much awkwardness, if not more. Hers derived from the fact that her English was almost incomprehensible.

At first I couldn't tell if it was because the music was loud or if indeed because she was new to the language. In any case, I understood that she was looking for a boyfriend and, I suspect, a way to stay longer in this country.

Her attempts to do so were misguided to say the least.

"You have strange face," she said.
"Like...in a good way?"
"It's a strange," she insisted.

Just as she began to gesture with her hands and demonstrate just what it was about my face that was quite so strange my friends arrived.

I followed them, left the South Korean girl at the bar and headed to the dance floor, more awkward than ever.

Onward Christian soldiers...

modern jesus army., originally uploaded by San Sharma.

Two groups with recruitment issues - the Christians and the Army - join forces to increase numbers.

A very random act of kindness.

If, according to American band The Shins, 'Caring is Creepy', kindness is just plain weird. And increasingly rare, I'm beginning to find.

I was just waiting for a train when my bag split and spilled its contents all over the platform floor. Dashing to pick up the pieces before my train arrived, not a single soul offered to help.

Imagine my surprise when I got on the train and a soul (single, I'd hoped) offered up her seat so that I could use my Mac, fresh from the floor of platform 2, near an electrical outlet. (Perhaps she'd read of my recent 'power struggle' on this here blog.)

"Yes, that would be...great," I said, dumbfounded and a little flustered.

Also in my hands were a pair of pants and some moisturising cream. I'd picked them off the floor (they were mine, after all) and was quite aware that it was an odd grouping of objects.

She was too, I suspect. Because instead of moving across, so that we could both sit at the table, she slid past, grabbed her belongings on the way (a more conventional grouping - bag, coat, etc.), then appeared to vacate the train all together.

Whether she meant to exit at Birmingham, I'll never know. But I didn't go after her, I didn't even ask. I just let her go.

That, I suppose, was my act of kindness.

Rock, roll and RSI

You know, it's funny - I've been working at my computer for almost two years and am suffering from repetitive strain injury only now, after spending just two days away from my computer.

The cause?

Guitar Hero for the Playstation 2.

If you've never played it before, I urge you - go out, get it, buy a Playstation if you need to (you can sell your real guitar for the cash), and say good bye to your social life.

It's the most fun you can have without leaving the house. I bet you'd love it.

I'd shake on that, but my hand is wrecked.

• Guitar Hero II

"Day 47 in the Big Brother house."

Big Brother is back on the telly tonight. And little brother, Ben - one of my four new housemates - will be, I imagine, quite pissed off that I'm taking that fact as inspiration for this post.

I'm contractually obliged, he said, to write about my new abode on my blog. And perhaps he's right. (I never did read the contract.) But I'm pretty sure he won't be happy that, despite all the good times we've shared, its the return of Channel 4's beleaguered reality TV show that has compelled me to write.

I've made up my mind. And I'm going to run with the analogy.

15 Kingsgate Road, my new house, is not unlike that of the compound at Elmstree Studios, where tonight a dozen fame-seekers will wheel in their suitcases and roll out their desperation.

Here, at Kingsgate Road, there are fewer fame-seekers but no less desperation. If this were reality TV - and it very nearly is, with all this digital equipment - Bill would be playing up to the camera, Adam, playing it down, Nic, the gobby posh one and Ben, a young boy on the verge of manhood.

Think Glyn from series 7.

And me? An agoraphobic, web-cam wielding recluse? I'm the perfect housemate.

Powering down.

I am today simultaneously impressed and disappointed by modern technology.

I'm finally blogging from a coffee shop in Birmingham - here's me, looking a little worse for wear (and like I'm leaning on that guy's arse). But it took me some time to get here.

In what may have been an act of defiance, my phone switched itself off last night, when it's battery died and the whole thing powered down for the first time in ages.

It's like it was saying to me, "hey! Silent's not enough, buddy. I'm powering down."

This led to a series of panic attacks. What if someone needed to get in touch with me? What if someone died? Or, worse still, what if my other communication devices join forces with the phone, form some sort of union and go on strike!

Thinking that I ought to check the former before fearing the latter, I tried to give me mum a ring. But, lo and behold, her number was stored on my phone. My sister's too, and my best friend's.

Don't worry, I thought. I've got backup.

But, when you're standing on a train platform in England's second city, having your phonebook backed up online is really no use.

I needed to get inside and find some wi-fi. This shouldn't be too difficult, right? This is England's second city, after all.

Well, I don't know how they rank these things, but finding wi-fi was pretty difficult. And when I finally did, my MacBook dimmed and whirred, as if to say, "sorry boss, the phone was calling me a 'scab'," and powered down, it's battery dead. It had joined the strike, the aluminium encased bastard!

And so the last hour or so has been spent, scouting Birmingham for a power outlet. Starbucks didn't have one spare, neither did Costa, and security weren't best impressed when I stole power from a Coke machine in the Bullring (though the act itself was rather empowering).

So here I am now, having been thrown out of Europe's biggest shopping centre, sitting in the concourse between it and my train back to London. I'm powered-up and connected; I've Skyped my friends and family, they're all fine. But I'm terrified to check my iPod. If that powers down I've got a two and half hour journey in silence.

What will I do? Read?

Good timing.

I couldn't have timed my return to Shrewsbury any better.

In a strange sort of reverse ethnic cleansing, the beautiful market town I once called home was this weekend left practically empty. Its townsfolk - arguably its least appealing quality - had hit the road to Wembley to support their local team, who in a weird twist of footballing fate were to play in the country's premiere stadium.

The streets were both eerily and delightfully quiet - football fans free to frolic in their fighting someplace else. All but one, I discovered, remained, here at Shrewsbury train station.

"You going to the match?" a lady shouted to another, who stood under the shadow of her hulking, skin head husband. She looked at him.
"Nah," she said.
"Why not?" the other asked. "I didn't think you guys would want to miss it."
"It's, er...him," she said, craning her neck to look up at her man, who had the word 'England' tattooed on the back of his. "He's got a football ban."
With that he bowed his head - partly in shame, I thought. Partly to reveal another tattoo. It was of a dog, burned to his scalp, now forever burned on my memory.

The man had a tattoo of a dog on his head.

Before I had much more time to think about that, my train arrived. I couldn't have timed my return to London any better, I thought. And with that left town.

Underwear still a big drawer

Picturing a crowd in its underwear is the worst possible advice to give someone nervous about addressing a classroom full of school children. Still, it's the advice I received a couple of years ago, right before I spoke at the Priory School in Shrewsbury.

It's also the advice I chose to ignore this afternoon, when I returned to the same school and to the same children - all grown up, their voices and bra straps having broken under the full force of puberty. With their lip gloss and their lethargy they were almost unrecognisable. And surprising in their intellect.

I was there to teach them about business, but - as per the cliché - they ended up teaching me. One girl told me how she'd secured the rights to all the pin boards in the school and that if anybody wanted to hang a poster they'd have to pay her for the privilege.

"It's premium ad space," she said.
"It's a monopoly." said another.

The kids were 14!

At that age I didn't know what was or wasn't 'premium ad space', nor that 'monopoly' was anything other than a board game - and a boring one at that.

I guess I was too busy picturing people in their underwear to care. Not much has changed in that respect.

Great, white and blue

It took me a little while to get into the band, The National. Might be because their name is one word short of The National Front. It's more likely because I didn't have their CD.

But I got Alligator yesterday and it's brilliant. In fact, I've been playing 'Mr November' for almost eight hours straight.

I think it saved my life.

Though lyrics like, "I'm the great white hope/I'm the new blue blood," do little to separate the Indie rockers from that other 'National' group, there's something about lead singer, Matt Berninger's baritone and the energy with which the band pop out the 4-minute wonder that gives me hope.

Even if I'll never be great or white. Or blue even.

The National – mr november

'Sorry' seems to be the hardest word.

I don't know if that's true. I find 'proliferation' very hard to say. 'Sorry' is easy. I say it all time - too much even.

• "Sorry, I thought you said it was fancy dress."
• "I'm not your father, sorry."
• "Sorry, no speaky English."

The last one's a bit of a cop out, to be honest. But it's something I've been doing a lot of recently. (Not 'copping off', mind you. Nothing's changed in that respect.)

But I haven't been posting much and I am sorry.

In a post entitled 'Cop Out', fellow blogger (and one time 'real life' friend) Wanderingjess perfectly captures my feelings of late.

I've just been beat lately, a little emotionally drained and a little too scattered to blog. (sigh)

And now I'm wondering, like Jess (but with an 'o' not an 'a'), do I bring you up to speed with the recent happenings not covered by this blog?

Or, like the first episode in the returning season of an American TV show (which is quite how I see my life), gently reintroduce the themes (social faux pas) and characters (me) that are recurrent in this blog?

This being the Internet - and me being quite lazy - I'm going to opt for the latter.

But please, browse the archives of this site, expect more regular updates and, inevitably, more social faux pas from here on.

Right, I'm off to a fancy dress party...

Roti and respectability

I've just explained this to a friend and she thought it was hilarious. Hopefully you will too. Hopefully some good will come from my evening, before something bad comes from my mouth.

You see, I'm full. Like really full. I'm so full I can't see my feet.

And it's all because I've just been caught in a cycle of roti and respectability, of cauliflower and chapati.

My aunt, who is staying with us this week, has made alloo gobi - a curried combination of potato and cauliflower, which, she tells me, is disrespectful - for some reason - to eat alone. Not with a loved one, of course (this is the land of the arranged marriage, after all).
"You mustn't eat without chapati," she said.

But it's also quite bad, I understand, to eat chapati alone - without the curried combination of something else. So, imagine my difficulty tonight in trying to synchronise my chapati and my cauliflower.

Each time I finished one I was served more of the other.

And so it went until both were finished at exactly the same time. And most of my lower torso had completely vanished beneath my big belly.
"More cauliflower, Sandeep?"
"No thanks, Aunty ji."

Gay pride

"Sunshine makes British people act crazy. Like...nice and everything."

Twitter update 06:03 PM April 05, 2007

It's a Bank Holiday weekend and spring has sprung its sunny self on us, like a hot, unexpected guest at a party. It's like we're so used to bad weather - and ugly people - that we don't know how to act.

White guys everywhere are wasting no time in impressing our new guest by whipping off their shirts and parading their pastiness with puffed-up pride.

Even I've been acting sort of strange. So overwhelmed was I with the morning sun that I sent a group text message, to around thirty people, announcing my good mood, the good weather and the apparent good news that I was, in no way, a homosexual.

"The sun - and the San - is out," it read. Quickly followed by a disclaimer - "Sorry, I'm not 'coming out.' Just wishing you all a good day."

"The lady doth protest too much," read one response. "You are gay," said another.

Well, if 'gay' is being happy and carefree maybe that's what I am. And proud too.

But heterosexual, I will add. And enjoying the sunshine.

In a bohemian sort of way.

I know it's really wrong but I still like Pete Doherty.