Last night a chap came up to me and asked me if I'm in the Eighties matchbox b line disaster. I said no, sorry, he said ok, ten minutes later he was back, his girlfriend says Oh yeah it is isn't it? No i'm not him. Petra confirms I'm definitely not him. They go off. An hour later he comes back with a mate. Sorry mate but my mate thinks your fucking brilliant, can he get a photo? there's no point, I'm not who you think I am, homestly. I swear I'm a nobody. All of my friends offer to substantiate this. He goes of again.
He doesn't return but two hours or so later I'm getting into a cab when guess who rolls up, you stuck up cunt... you fucking queer...Your bands fucking shit...
I'm a lover not a fighter but luckily my friend Paul enjoys a chance to hurt people (always take a drummer everywhere) and did so.
The moral of the story is, don't insist I look like a weird looking man unless you know me to be the weird looking man I am.
Why aren't ladies so persistent and easily fooled?
I should have punctuated this properly but I want to watch Antiques Roadshow
He doesn't return but two hours or so later I'm getting into a cab when guess who rolls up, you stuck up cunt... you fucking queer...Your bands fucking shit...
I'm a lover not a fighter but luckily my friend Paul enjoys a chance to hurt people (always take a drummer everywhere) and did so.
The moral of the story is, don't insist I look like a weird looking man unless you know me to be the weird looking man I am.
Why aren't ladies so persistent and easily fooled?
I should have punctuated this properly but I want to watch Antiques Roadshow
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Or--maybe next time--say "yeah, it's me" and let them buy you a drink or six.