David

I'll give you an answer David. Call me Dave. No, I'll call you David. Let's ignore the beard. It'll be consigned to inglorious history by 2018. Then you'll have to go back to just being ginger. But they can do things for hair loss these days. They cannot however do anything about a predilection for denim shirts. That is a denim shirt, isn't it? I thought it was a good old blue checked shirt, safe as that moment you untuck your tailored one, Oxford twill, at your Christmas party where you have four or five beers and get a bit loud 'cos woah man, it's the 21st century and we're heading for fucking doomsday so live like today could be our last and there'll be no more craft ale in the bottle shop, like, ever, so live fast, die young and ride off into the sunset on a silver unicorn with five heads. I mean, come on, not even Jeremy Clarkson wears denim shirts these days.

I apologise, it's not your fault. You were made to wear this shit. That smile means fuck all. You don't give a fuck if this shit is hot or not. Hot or not? What is this, 1997? Shall I compare thee to a Big Four supermarket ingredient-composed chicken bhuna? I tell you what mate, you can stick your rice and nan, I'm off for a shish down the Antalya Best Kebab House. But first I'm going to drink 18 pints of whatever's cheapest in Wetherspoon's and throw a brick through the window of TK Maxx. 'Cos I'll be that pissed, I'll get the wrong fucking supermarket. And it's not even a supermarket. But fuck it, it'll be funny.