Olympics: I have a facial on the 8th of August

Scheduling appointments

I must have words with my calendar secretary, he has been scheduling all sorts of appointments that I am not sure I would be able to honour because of other eventualities that might arise.

I have found that I have a facial schedule; in fact, it is a full body treatment as a metrosexual aside; on the 8^th of August 2008 in the afternoon. That is not to say I have no other indulgences before then but that seems to clash with another important event that I had previously considered attending.

Regrets, regrets

My regrets to the Chinese government for not being able to attend in person the opening of the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing would be duly expressed, but the greater regret would be, if I have cucumbers over my dainty eyelids, I would not watching the opening ceremony on television either.

I would not give up a floatation tank treatment and the reflexology manipulations not to talk of the beauty treatments that would make a me surer man than me to while away precious pampering time in front of a tube – I do not have a flat-screen television yet – the one I have still works.

We are busy

Before I begin the self-flagellation of utter regret, Gordon Brown might also be down at the spa, Ban Ki-Moon seems to have booked his pedicure for the same time and George Bush is thinking maybe his pheasant shooting date might just change the course of history to make him the best President of the United States ever.

Suddenly, at the eighth second, of the eighth minute of the eighth hour in the night of the eighth day of the eighth month of the eighth (It is really the ninth) year of the millennium we might all be busy doing something else but what the Chinese want us to do – watch their grand show of pretending to be a nation that has arrived on the world stage.

Learning from 1936

This time we would not be spectators of a new kind foreboding once experienced in Berlin in 1936, all is not well in China today just was all was not well in German then, one has to be discreet enough not to mention Tibet, Myanmar, Darfur or human rights within China itself, that would not be the done thing.

Ah! I have an offer at the Spa, I can visit twice in a month, and I would be back there on the 24^th of August.

Buttocks are richer Botox

Golden undies

Whilst I was out shopping for canes and mobile phone deals, I could not help but noting the number of billboards that now have David Beckham (Golden Balls) modelling Emporio Armani briefs.

Now, some advertising executive might think he has me on his demographic, I am afraid, only Sloggis do it for me and if you modelled them on cows, it would not make any difference to the fact that they provide in the mode, adequate support for the crown jewels.

Cheap undies

I had hardly walked up a shopping street when I came across a group of teenage boys all dressed up to their trendy nines with trousers hanging down the wrong place that I cursed under my breath – Young man pull up your trousers, I cannot stand the sight of your cheap and tattered underwear.

It is interesting to read that 1 in 5 men now go for Botox treatments, it really makes you wonder; I can handle a massage, a facial, a manicure and even hazard a pedicure.

Irksome Metrosexuals

If only someone with big fat and flabby buttocks would sit on their faces and aerate their clogged pores with bombastic flatulence – that would be Botox for free and probably healthier – they are called Metrosexuals, I hear.

So, as I was getting off the metro, the “man” in front of me who looked like he had Schwarzenegger muscles got up and made for the door with a handbag slung over his shoulder and bag handles that looked like something off Margaret Thatcher’s Salvatore Ferragamo hand bag.

Men with handbags, what next?

How I withheld the impulse of putting my good foot into his backside to shake the metro off his sexual vaunt, escapes me, I would have giggled with glee as he scraped the ground for the cuticle treatment that would have been damaged by breaking his fall and his hair flopped over his face like a Dulux dog – I know what I like about people, but that does not include those who leave me confused about the sex of the person.

Metrosexual – My foot! I should apply for a job in one of those men’s beauty parlours and make all their cheeks rogue-red with a decent oxy-acetylene torch – What is this world coming to? I ask.