NoBlog 35: Jim Lovetoy says You’re his Best Friend...

13 May 2010

We’d been in there for a while and I was randy so I called up my PA. Katrina has been working with me for about a month and looks like she could become one of my favourite places. She’s a total fox and as a lifelong Tory voter I was in the hunt! I’d have made a move sooner but I’ve learned from experience that a month is a good amount of time to wait as the woman could be crazy. I bed wrestled the last one after about a week – let’s just call her “tits for brains” –and it was a bad move. She was only a bloody PA and she started ringing me out of working hours – her ringing me during my time off – saying: “I’ve got something to tell you.” You love me, well done, move on. I told her to be professional and made it clear that I was her boss and therefore her master. She was to talk to me about work related matters only. Still TFB pestered my voicemail and did crazy things. She’d come in to the office and say she was “late” despite being on time. She’d throw up every morning, obviously having been out on the sauce the night before to get over me. She’d suddenly start crying in this really attention seeking way which meant I had to ask her what was wrong and then woman on about how her “hormones” were making her sentimental. Sentimental? She was half right.

Don’t get me wrong, I like women’s hormones - they’re scientific proof that I’m right and they’re insane – but one day she just started screaming at me, going: “Listen to me! Why won’t you just listen to me?!” obviously forgetting that as her boss I only had to listen to her about work related matters. It was doing my head in and then I remembered I could just sack her. She’d started getting fat as the months wore on and the view became affected. What was once a beautiful meadow was now a frumpy car park and I’d had enough. It was stressing me out. The psycho’s even trying to take me to court now!

Katrina would be different as I’d made her have a mental health check up as part of the interview process. I’d decided that this was a good time to take her for a test ride and was draped over the bar, smouldering, as she purposefully strode in. “Why are you calling me up on a Sunday?” she demanded, obviously flattered but hiding it behind a feistiness that drove me wild. Unlike TFB she understood work boundaries and was clearly in dreamland over the fact that I’d invited her to join me in my precious leisure time, on my title winning Sunday, the most important day of all. I thought I’d make it quick so I could get more rutting in before the three pints of anti-viagra I’d had got to work and I told her I liked her perfume, sniffed her neck and said: “You smell like a fox.” Classic line. Then as I went in for the tongue war she pulled away! “Obviously she’s the type who wants to take things slowly”, I thought, which is a bit annoying as I’m already...29. I didn’t have all night! Then she starts going on about her boyfriend and how as her boss I shouldn’t be doing this. So, frigid, already with someone and therefore a tart if she’s here with me and also a prude. What a disappointment. I sacked her on the spot. There’s no way I’m making that mistake again! She went ballistic about how she hated the job anyway and said she’d be sending a letter about something being unfair before she stormed off. Why send a letter? Like I’d forget that!

I’d lost what I thought was a good PA and wasted some of my free minutes setting that up so I was pissed off. I knew there was something good that happened too though and swung my head around to see Fatto sucking beer out of a blue and white scarf he was dangling into a pint glass. Then I remembered: Chelsea, Chelsea! Chelsea, Chelsea! Championees! Championees! They’d never let me down, not like Watford would have, not like women do. They’ve overcome so much; the financial restraints put on them by the recession, the slanderous attacks on John Terry and Ashley Cole by various tabloids and dungaree burning feminist types upset about them following their natural urges to copulate with girls who are younger and fitter than them, referees cheating them out of Europe again. Even Chelsea’s B team got to the Europa League final! Next season will be even better if they sack Ancelotti and get in someone who can win us The Champions League. Chelseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeea! Blaaaaaaaaah. I’m still so pissed.

Note: Katrina, be extra vigilant when you proof read this in case it’s all bollocks because I’m hammered and that. Also, let’s go out for dinner next week as it’s your pay day.

At The Groucho Fatto and I were trying to get at least one of The Sugababes (the new ones) back to mine when the doorman told us we should leave. He didn’t like it when I kept shouting: “Grouchy Groucho! Chelsea, Chelsea!” at him. He had a point though, we should have left, my flat is much better than the sodding Groucho. Fatto reckons he was about to clump me before he dragged me off! I love Fatto too. I know he’d never take me for a ride like some of the vampires you get in show business, except in his cab, which he did to get us home.

That’s the last thing I remember. I must have been on Ebay at some point because I’ve apparently been getting stuff in the post. Today alone I received loads of knickers from Japanese girls, my own book and one of those little scooters you see cool people who are completely in touch with what’s going on riding around on even though I’ve already got three. I‘m even defining the zeitgeist when I’m unconscious! On that subject I’m going to prise Fatto out of my bed and get back in it because I want to cry for lots of different, confusing reasons. Chelsea, Chelsea! Chelsea, Chelsea! Woooooooo! Chelsea, Chelsea!

Jim Lovetoy

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