STEPHEN FRY

I've fallen in love with Hugh Laurie.

I mean, in a celebrity crush kind of way. I haven't moved to Hollywood, engineered a chance meeting like Dudley Moore's fifth wife did by throwing herself in front of his Mercedes and then luring him into her web of obsessed insanity. Though I plan to do so in the near fut- NO. I am NOT going to do this. I am in no way serious. I can't afford the plane ticket.

The alarming thing about it is that the crush has become all intertwined with my transsexual longing for a male physique, and so I find myself admitting that I want his body.

I mean. I mean... I MEAN. I want his body for *myself*.

Crap, that didn't sound quite right either. What I mean to say is that I have a massive man-crush on him and want to sleep with him. Yes, that's... hang on, did I just say...? Well, I suppose it's not that unusual. Lots of people are physically attracted to their physical ideal - they both aspire to it and want it - it's *attractive* to them in all sorts of ways.

So I want Hugh Laurie and I want to be him. In the realms of fantasy, of course. In actuality, that would be bizarre. I would be Hugh Laurie sleeping with Hugh Laurie. And which one of us would be the real Hugh Laurie? Would it be narcissism, or simply incest? Would some sort of rift open in the Space Time Continuum? All valid questions, though I've strayed rather from the point.

Yes, I would like to be just like Hugh Laurie. As he is as Dr. House, I must stress. I don't have the time or the resources to acquire full Royal Regency garb.

I mean I desperately, desperately want this. I want to play the guitar like this:

I want to look this good in this sort of T-shirt:

I want to do this with a chair:

I want to do this on a bike:

I want to wear a hat just like this:

Oh look! I am! I AM THE COOLEST :

It cost me three quid in River Island.

I don't want to row. I can't be arsed with that sh*t. I tried it once on a lake in Scarborough and it was the most exhausting ten bloody minutes of my life. And then I trailed my hand in the water and pulled out a floating horse chestnut and it exploded in a mess of hideous rotten smelly liquid. All in all a negative experience.

I don't particularly want a cane, either. I'd buy one, but I can barely afford bread. I do have a Vileda Easymop, from which I might unscrew the head and use as a cane.

I do want to play the blues. Unfortunately I'm crap. I've mastered the left hand eight bar chord progression but my right hand won't cooperate. Though there *is* a woman called Irene who comes into where I work, and every time she leaves at the end of the evening I say, 'Goodnight, Irene.' Which I feel is progress.

Did I mention that I think I'm losing my mind?

Thassnot alarming!!

You'll have to try harder.

it's ok to have models for masculinity. (more than ok, it's great) and if it gets all mized up into other sauces, well, fine.

i typo/misspelled mixed but i think i like it with the z better.

you can throw a chair, right? i bet there's one that's been left in an alley. I bet you can throw a chair BETTER than that! I bet you can find an entire bedroom suite in an alley and get a baseball bat and whack the fuck out of it. and then we will start the "what clive did as well as or even better than Hugh Laurie (no offense Hugh)" thread.

Frazzy, that is alarming. A large moth??! I have two harmonicas, but can play neither of them. I just look at them and dream.

LOL, thanks michael, I feel slightly reassured. You know what, you're right. I *can* throw a chair. I'm going to throw one now. Haha!

Okay, I can't throw a chair. Or lift a chair, as it turns out.

Though for self-esteem purposes, I have compiled a list of things I can do better than Hugh Laurie.

I've called it:

Things I Can Do Better Than Hugh Laurie

1. Menstruate.

That's all I have so far, but it's a work in progress.

I'm alarmed at your lack of alarmedness. Be alarmed, not alert.. or perhaps that was supposed to be the other way around.
But now I'm just imagining everyone is a fire escape door....
Also now there is a mysterious bug in my room, somewhere, lurking.. It was on my leg, and I thought it was a small weird butterfly, but I poked it HOPPED. Apparently it's a butterhop. Mildly alarming.
I am plagued by winged creatures.

I do not, I used to.. (sigh) this butterhop was clearly some sort of Melbourne mutant.. it probably subsists only on coffee and fixed gear bicycles. I will not share my coffee with a bug who won't identify itself. Rude creature. As a kid, I always had lizards to save me from insect-based alarm, and/or theft of coffee.

I should clean too.. but instead I will sit here, with my leg on the desk, rocking back on my chair in a possibly alarming almost-falling-through-the-window sort of manner, whilst strumming ineptly on my banjo, jealously guarding my coffee from mutant bugs, and pretending that the collection of empty bottles beneath my desk is there for a good reason.

Banjos are quiet massively cool, yes. I'd play everything (badly), if I could afford to purchase 100s of random instruments.. and had much more time.. and space.. perhaps I could somehow incorporate a marimba into my bed...
Alarming, that is, I'm an unemployed bum, and yet there's just no time to do all the things I want to.. how do proper people manage?
Also alarming is my complete inability to remember that the switch for the light on the left is on the right, and vice versa.. I turn the wrong one on every time.. I find it greatly irritating that it's not left/left right/right.. and yet I can't remember.. Also the beanie I've been searching EVERYWHERE for, for the past week, has been next to my keyboard all along.. I've probably had my elbow on it everyday. Clearly my brain has melted.
I saw a door with 'alarmed', written on it, in quotes.. It took all my will power not to open in to find out exactly what was meant by that.
The words 'May she eat my bun?' cause me to giggle... even more so if you remove the question mark... that old bitch, MAY SHE EAT MY BUN and/or rot in hell.
Also, surely the inability to get up, negates any need to mention that she also can't go out.. and honestly, who has ever been to ill to eat a bun.. unless in a coma.. in which case tea seems unwise too..
Now the words 'may she eat my bun' are stuck in my head..
MAY SHE EAT MY BUN.
This phrase shall be like a pox upon all who have the misfortune to know me.