Given that it will transform literature and the written word for the rest of history from hereon, the fee I ask, I think, is modest in the circumstances.
And we become confirmed in this view as we now receive hints of a hatchet-job commissioned by God’s inner circle (Tammy Wynette, Thora Hird, Roy Castle, George Formby, John Conteh, James Stewart, and Sammy Davis Jr).
God said 'Abraham, kill me a son,' And Abraham asked, 'Which one?' To which God replied, ‘Well, if there isn’t one that you perceive as a threat, kill the one who most gets on your nerves, I suppose.’
I was guilty of a sort of casual, lazy, bias; my Norwegian acquaintance, however, was an actual racist.
But how anyone, can have a favourite Spice Girl other than Sports, strikes me as absurd. It’s just plain wrong on every important metric: looks, talent, singing, dancing, niceness.
Well wouldn’t that be a challenge to a pair of naughties like us?
Of course, when I say irksome, I mean profoundly depressing and unpleasant; and when I say best avoided, I mean terrifying and boring in equal amounts.
Listening to that meretricious nonsense was utter torture. If only I had some knitting needles close by, I could have driven them into my ears.
All it’s really done though, is to have compromised their ability to understand how real people work, so that their attempts to engage with them now are executed with the heavy-handed caprice of a fairy tale king.
I remember, he was wearing a casual suit with those carrot-leg trousers that are deliberately too small and stop on your ankles. They make men of a certain age look like a hard-boiled egg on a cocktail stick.