… to all of the people (the many, many people) who’ve been finding this blog lately after googling some variation of “worried that baby will be ginger” or “chances of having ginger haired baby” or “can I dye my baby’s hair if it is ginger?” (No, I’m seriously not kidding on that last one):
Please, do the world a favour: just don’t breed. It’s way too risky. We have enough stupid people in the world already, thanks: we don’t need the likes of you diluting the gene pool any further.
I mean, seriously, if this isn’t evidence that people should have to apply for a license to breed (and pass all kinds of anti-stupidity tests along the way), I don’t know what is. And I really hope that these people don’t have red-haired babies: not through any concern for the sheer embarrassment of the parents (I mean, GOD, imagine having to be seen with it!), but out of real concern for the children who might be born to people like this.
It absolutely terrifies me that there are people out there who would seriously consider dyeing a newborn’s hair because they don’t think it looks nice. It frightens the crap out of me that there are people worried that they might not be able to love their child if it’s a redhead. Poor kids. What a start in life, eh.
I’m being serious: I don’t think these people should be allowed to breed. They really don’t deserve children.
That is all.
Tagged red hair, redhead
We’re going to a networking event next month through Business Buzz. It’s a bowling night. I’m not looking forward to it. Oh, it’s not the bowling I object to per se, or, indeed the networking (although it’s true that I’m not much of a people person) – it’s the two together. To me, a networking/bowling event is like the mullet haircut: business in front, party at the back, and never the twain should meet. That’s not to say, of course, that you shouldn’t ever socialise with business associates because that’s not my problem, either. No, my problem is shoes. Specifically: bowling shoes.
You see, bowling shoes put me at a huge disadvantage. It’s not just the sheer fugliness of them. It’s the “dozens-of-other-people-have-had- their-feet-inside-me”-ness of them. I hate that. I hate it so much, in fact, that a couple of years back, when Terry went through a “let’s go bowling every week!” phase, I complained about the shoes to such an extent that my parents actually brought me a pair back from Florida, so now I own bowling shoes. You can just imagine the kind of looks I get when I turn up at a bowling night with these babies and everyone assumes I’m some kind of freaky pro-bowler or something. Hee! “No, I’m not a professional,” I have to keep telling them. “I just have a LOT of shoes…”
So, yeah, I have my own bowling shoes, which means that my shoes are less offensive to the eye than the ones you’re given in the alley. (The bowling alley, that is. I made that sound like a crack deal, didn’t I? Bowling shoe crack. Sorry, ignore me…) The fact is, though, they’re still bowling shoes, and even although I’ve been having a flirtation with flat shoes recently, that flirtation is an ill-advised one, like having a fling with someone you just know is wrong for you, and will totally treat you like crap and then leave you, but you keep seeing them anyway because, hey, it might work out!
It will never completely work out between me and flat shoes. And, you know, it’s not them, it’s me. I need to see other shoes, specifically shoes with heels. All of my clothes are designed for heels. Seriously, I don’t have ONE SINGLE pair of jeans that aren’t about three inches too long when I try to wear them with flats. Not one. This means that, in addition to wearing BOWLING SHOES at this networking event, I will also have to wear rolled-up jeans or trousers. A great look, I’m sure you’ll agree. Why were the models not dressed like that at Fashion Week, WHY?
Anyway, as I was saying, bowling shoes put me at a huge disadvantage, basically by making me look like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes. To the fashion-conscious young lady such as myself, this is terrible indeed. I mean, OK, I don’t mind looking like an ass in front of my friends and family (And God knows, they’re used to it by now), but in front of potential clients? GOD, no.
The whole “me bowling” thing puts whichever team I end up on at a huge disadvantage too. The fact is that I can’t bowl to save my life. (So it’s a good job I’ll probably never have to, innit?) In fact, I can’t really do anything that requires hand-to-eye co-ordination. Going bowling reminds me horribly of being in high school, when I was always the last person to be picked for the basketball team, and would spend the entire game running around, being careful to stay in the general vicinity of the ball (so that I looked like I was participating) but WITHOUT ACTUALLY TOUCHING IT. If I’d touched it, the rest of the team would have beat me up after class. (Actually? One time I did touch the ball. It came flying at me and I reached up, panic stricken to bat it away. Staved my finger horribly. Never, ever again…)
I can guarantee that no one will want me on their team (Well, not unless there’s a fat, smelly net worker, who no one else will talk to. They’ll be my friend for life), and you might argue that hey, they won’t know I’m not much use at bowling until it’s too late, but I would argue right back that as soon as they see me in my rolled up jeans and my bright white shoes, they’ll know right away that I’m not much good at anything. Also: Terry will totally tell them.
No, if I’m going out networking (and most of the time I’m not, owing to the fact that I like to live my live on the internet as much as possible), give me a nice bar and a couple of glasses of Pinot Grigio any day. Chicken in a basket, blaringly loud music and fugly shoes just don’t do it for me. I mean, how are you supposed to network in that kind of situation, anyway? Start shouting out your services while spinning that bad boy? Nuh-uh. Give me somewhere I can actually hear what the person I’m speaking to is saying, and where I’m not constantly distracted by trying to tally up scores (maths phobic) and hide my shoes under my seat. Oh, and give me some more wine while you’re at it, thanks…
Tagged shoes
So, I’m writing a novel. God, I know, how tedious of me. Everyone is writing a novel these days. Even Terry has tried it, and, to be perfectly honest, I’d be surprised if Rubin doesn’t have one in the pipelines too – "My Life With Wolves" or something. The thing that’s different about my novel, though, is that, unlike all of these other novels I’m always hearing about, it’s highly unlikely that mine will ever be finished. I’m the mistress of procrastination, remember, and if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s how to do a job badly.
I am writing my novel very badly. I’m stopping and starting with depressing regularity (Well, the stopping is regular, anyway. The starting, not so much.) Every so often I’ll have a rush of enthusiasm, and I’ll spend two or three weeks hammering away at the keyboard, frantically cranking out word after word, absolutely convinced that this is totally going to be the BEST NOVEL EVER and that when I’m finished, why, an agent will probably snap me right up and I’ll be rich and famous like JK Rowling, and will spend my days lying on a chaise in a silk nightgown, sipping martinis and typing a few exquisitely crafted chapters every now and then, The End. (Agents who are reading this and who are desperate to make this dream a reality: call me!)
Anyway, this latest break has been the longest one so far. I had a rush of enthusiasm back in 2004, and another one in 2005. Both of these happened when Terry was ill and I was all “adversity maketh the man!” and all that, but then the business got busy and I started spending all my time looking at shoes on the internet, and gah, no novel. Last night was the first time in about six months that I’ve so much as opened the folder in which the novel lives, though: I had been drinking wine and I thought that would cushion the blow, but nope, not a chance. The Novel was horrifically bad: so much so that I decided to start again from scratch. So I opened a new file, changed the font a few times, and then… nothing.
Well, actually, not quite nothing. I have about 2,000 words, but most of them don’t count because I just copied and pasted them from the last, doomed draft of the novel. Tonight I will copy and paste some more, and maybe even add some shiny new fresh ones, and, in this way, we will proceed for the next week or so, until I eventually throw my hands up in horror and announce, that GOD, I am so never going to be a novelist! Why do I ever tell myself I could be a novelist?
I do it, I suppose, because it’s still my most deeply cherished dream. One day I will do it, and I’m mentioning it here because, hey! If I give up this time, you all can shout at me, ‘kay?
Every so often (well, every day, really. I have no life.) I like to take a look at the referrers to this site, and particularly the search terms people are using to find me. It’s a real education. Here’s a selection of the referrers I’ve had over the past couple of weeks, missing out all the boring ones (like ‘Forever Amber’, ‘Amber, Terry Rubin’ and things):
First pair of glasses
Eye brow dye
Red weals on face
Absolutely amber
Liam Gallagher favourite clothing
I fell off my bike
Calories in haribo sweets
"liam gallagher" fashion boots
hot weal watches
Why journalists hate PR
jury duty las vegas
"river island" Credit card payment doesn’t work
falling off exercise bike
called repeatedly for jury duty
neighbours from hell+photo
NOT Forever Amber
journalists writing about prostitution
bad things about computer
why do journalists turn to PR
the problem with Ikea
shoes shoesshoes oh my god shoes
hot weals
waistband stretcher
earplugs pounding bass car
white sneakers are bad
married to the mob + t-shirts
exercises for bad ankles
noise intolerance in gardens
liam gallagher’s hair
HOW CAN I FIND OUT IF A FRIENDS HOUSE IS GOING TO BE REPOSSED
ginger mingers hair test
christian louboutin-wedding shoes
onion socks
It was looking like a pretty comprehensive thumbnail sketch of my life there, right up until I got to "Onion Socks". THE HELL? What are onion socks? When did I write about them? Do I have them? Whaaa….?
That aside, what can you tell about me from this list? Well, I like shoes, clearly (shoesshoesshoes ohmygod shoes!). I fall off my bike. And my exercise bike. I write about prostitution. (No! I really don’t! Unless by "prostitution" they mean "PR"?) I have noisy neighbours and don’t like that much, but art least I have the earplugs. I really admire Liam Gallagher, his hair and fashion sense. I have red weals on my face. And I wear "onion socks". Welcome to my world, people…
P.S. The person who found me after Googling "ginger mingers hair test"? Bite me.
For some reason I forgot to mention that I’m now contributing to yet another blog. It’s Shiny Media’s fabulous Shiny Shiny, the girl’s guide to gadgets, and you should all go and take a look right now. If you like gadgets you’ll love it for its product reviews and fab finds, and if you don’t like gagdets you’ll still love it because, well, it’s pretty.
Well, because it’s Friday, and because I obviously didn’t learn my lesson the first time I wrote about this, here’s another prime example of Things PRs Do That Annoy Me, hot off the press this morning.
(DISCLAIMER: Not all PRs annoy me. Not all PRs do Bad Things. In fact, most of them are lovely! I heart them! On with the show…)
The example: an email from a PR, complaining about the fact that although his company advertised in a recent supplement I wrote some copy for, they were not mentioned in the editorial. “We advertise heavily in [name of publication]” he wrote, “and would therefore expect to get a mention.”
Oh really? And why is that, then? Surely this PR is not suggesting that his company would like to buy their way into an article? I mean, I’m sure that’s not what he’s trying to say, because, after all, PRs never do things like that, and if they do, well hey, journalists are just as bad, so there’s no point in me complaining about it, is there?
I think there is, actually. Last week I was criticised by a PR for apparently “relying on press releases too much”. This week I’m criticised by a PR for not relying on them enough, and for – shock horror – neglecting to give preferential treatment to advertisers. I really can’t win, can I? For the record, the advertising team at the publication in question don’t tell me who has taken out adverts. This is because I don’t need to know. It’s not relevant. If a company has done something newsworthy, then they can expect to get some coverage. Buying advertising space is not newsworthy, and if a journalist has any integrity at all, it’s not going to sway their decision on whether or not to include you. If you buy advertising you’ll get an advert. That’s it. You don’t have the right to complain about not also getting editorial because as long as your advert appeared, you got what you paid for.
Thankfully, the vast majority of PRs out there are well aware that “advertising” and “news” are two completely different things – or should be. It’s the ones who don’t who make my job difficult, and I have to say that, of all of the things PRs have done to irritate me recently, I think this one wins the prize.
To put it in perspective: lots of companies advertise in this particular supplement, and only one PR complained that their advert didn’t guarantee them editorial. So this kind of behaviour is hardly what you could call “the norm”. The problem is, though, that there’s always one, isn’t there? Every single time I’ve written for something like this, there’ll be at least one PR who’ll have a hissyfit because they thought buying an advert automatically guaranteed them preferential treatment. Where do they get this idea from? Is it the advertising team, promising them the world just to get their hands on the cold, hard cash? Is it the fact that some publications do allow advertisers to monopolize editorial? Is it the PR industry itself? Answers on a press release postcard…
 Rubin writes…
Oh man, wait till I tell you what I did last night! You will be, like, SO impressed!
So, as y’all know, because they are as mad as fish, Amber and Terry like to confine me to Azkaban of an evening. Well, Sting and Bob Geldof never did turn up to FREE ME, so for months now I have been forumulating a plan – a plan that I cunningly put into action last night.
Last night, you see, was “windy”, and I don’t mean in the “OMG, Rubinman, have you farted again?” kind of way. No, it, was, like, a STORM, and as I sat there, deep within the confines of AZKABAN, listening to the wind howl around the house, I knew that my time had come. It was time for the Rubinman to be free, and to take his rightful place in the BIG BED – Amber and Terry’s basket, upstairs.
Well, I started barking. Every time the wind howled, the Rubinman howled with it. I barked and I barked until I was actually starting to annoy even myself. I knew it would be worth it, though. I knew it would get a reaction, and, sure enough, after not very long, Terry showed up. Man, he was MAD. He was, like, totally shouting and saying BAD WORDS at me like a crazymad thing, so what I did was, I shut up until he was on his way back to his basket, and then I started it up again. And again. And again. God, it was the best performance of my life. Terry was getting madder by the moment, but I knew that within twenty minutes I’d be upstairs and I’d be in that there BIG BED right along with Them.
I gave myself thirty minutes to break him. It only took about ten. Before I knew what was happening, I was upstairs. He had brung my bed with him, but, like I was going to sleep on the floor! No way, man. I just waited until he lay down, then I jumped out and ran round the bedroom like a madman, popping my head up every now and then – POP!
Within minutes, I had achieved my goal. I was picked up and allowed to sleep in the BIG BED, and, it’s like, that’s where I’ll be sleeping from now on, dudes. I just need to work out how to get A&T out of the way – let them sleep in Azkaban from now on, see how they like it.
Anyway, enough of this. Before I go, though, I just want to clear something up. Quite a lot of yoos have been askin’ me lately if I really write the blawg myself. Yoos are all, “You’re a dog, dude, you can’t type, I bet Amber writes it for you!” Well, yoos are WRONG. This here blawg is all my own work, and to prove it, here is a picture of me “blogging”. As you can see, got me a GREAT BIG keyboard, so’s I can type. SO THERE.
Smell yas, dudes!
Rubin
Hey peeps. Tonight I’d like to talk about how hideously disfigured I am. No, this is not a digging-for-compliments exercise or even a self-indulgent entry focusing on the fascinating subject of how insecure I am about the way I look – I’m way too old for all that jazz. No, I actually am hideously disfigured, and do you know how I know? Why, because the good ladies over at the Handbag.com forums told me so, of course. Repeatedly.
Actually, let’s be fair: they weren’t talking about me in particular, and I’m sure if they were to meet me they’d all be quick to assure me that, of course, my hair is perfectly lovely, and not at all the shade of red – sorry, “ginger” – that so offends their eyes. Yes, folks, we’re talking about hair, here. Specifically, red hair – or “ginger” hair as they like to call it. Why, hair just like mine in fact! Isn’t it awful? Don’t you just pray that your children, should you have them, are never cursed with this particular disfigurement? Lots of people do (pray, that is), and who can blame them?
The discussion I’m talking about was actually pretty tame compared to some of the ones I’ve seen, and some of the comments I’ve heard. Comments like, “Oh, don’t worry, she might grow out if it! It might turn blonde!” (Said to my mother when I was a babe in arms) and, “Tell me, Amber, do you ever worry that your children might inherit It?” (No, do you ever worry yours will inherit your complete lack of intellect?)
The thread in question starts off with … well, with a question. A “very serious” and deeply distressing question. Our protagonist is worried that she might one day have a red haired baby. I know! I mean, aren’t we all! She’s been lucky so far: neither she nor her partner have the dreaded Curse, but – and here’s the kicker – his mum (who hopefully never reads Handbag.com) does, and so did her gran. I mean, you can see their dilemma, can’t you? They could have a redhaired baby! In fact, no, let’s not mince our words here, let’s say what we mean: their child could be an ugly-ass ginger!
Now, personally I’d just get sterilised and adopt, no question. That’s certainly what I’m going to do, because, God, I’m ginger, and so was my gran! And my Great-Gran! I mean, any child of mine would surely be doomed, and I may as well be honest: when I tell people I don’t want children, what I actually mean is “I couldn’t be so cruel as to bring another redhead into the world”.
(Y’all get that I’m being sarcastic here, don’t you? OK, just checking…)
It gets worse, though. Rather than simply suggesting sterliistaion, the women on the handbag forums set about very earnestly working out what the odds might be of this poor girl having “a ginger”. They come to the conclusion that it’s probably around 4:1. The original poster decides she can live with that. What she would have done had the odds been higher is anyone’s guess.
It doesn’t end there, though. Once everyone has shared their relief that our protagonist probably isn’t at as much risk as she might have thought, someone comes up with the idea – and this is a stroke of pure genius, people – that in order to avoid having a baby with red hair, you could first of all have GENETIC TESTING to determine whether you carry the mutant gene. If you do, then presumably your way is clear – you don’t breed.
God, I wish someone had come up with this sooner. OK, I wouldn’t be here, but on the bright side, neither would any of the other “ginger mingers”. We could have a world totally absent of redheads! Oooh! Oooh! I know what we could do! We could make it so that only people who have the type of colouring we deem to be “attractive” – people with blue eyes and blonde hair, say – were allowed to breed, so we had a whole society of aesthetically pleasing people! Now, I know I’ve heard something like that before… Where was it? Never mind, I’m sure it’ll come to me…
(Right after this point was made, by the way? Someone else – someone who actually has red hair herself – posted asking if this type of testing can actually happen, because, and I quote: “I’d never forgive myself if I passed my red hair onto one of my kids.” I swear I’m not making this up.)
Now, I’m not a scientist. (I’ll wait while you stop reeling in shock at that one, shall I?), so I have no idea whether it’s possible for the miracle that is modern science to identify the “redhead gene” and thus rid the world of redheads. (We will be sure to slam the door on the way out.) The fact that supposedly intelligent women are even discussing this kind of idiocy on a public forum, though, leaves me gasping in horror at the depths of stupidity that some people will plumb.
The truly sad thing about all of this? This is about the fifth or sixth time I’ve seen this type of thread come up on a discussion forum, or even, as I’ve said, in normal conversation. Something I learned from a very early age is that people really don’t like redheads, and they’re not ashamed to say so, in the way that most people would probably think twice about voicing the same sentiment about, say, black people. I mean, just imagine it:
Original Poster:
“God, I’m so worried: my partner’s mum is black! What if our baby is black too, I couldn’t stand it!”
Other Posters:
“Oooh, that would be awful, but don’t worry, hun, the chances are slim, lol!”
Original Poster: “Thank God, for that! Imagine, a black baby – YUCK!”
Bright Spark: “You know, what you could do is you could be genetically tested to see if you carry The Gene that makes people black.”
Idiot Poster: “Can anyone tell me if that’s actually possible? You see, I am black and I would never forgive myself if I passed my black skin onto one of my kids!”
See, it would never happen, would it? No, that would be racist and unforgivable. It’s fine to say the same things about us redheads, though: for one, we have no feelings – none at all – and for two, we’re not a different race or anything. Hell, we’re just ugly. And we all know how much fun it is to hate ugly people!
For the record, I love my red hair, and always have – yes, even when people at school called me “traffic lights”. I wouldn’t change it, not even when it brings out the very worst, most prejudiced part of some people. And, you know, as a wise man once said: I can dye my oh-so-ugly red hair. These people will always be stupid.
I think I’m going to start up a new clothing line. It will consist mainly of t-shirts, and they’ll all say “RED AND PROUD”, or maybe “I’D RATHER BE RED THAN dead A F*****G MORON”. Stop me and buy one.
Pass the message on, people: the redheads will inherit the earth. And they’re angry.
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Tagged ginger, Gingerism, red hair, redhead
Rubin writes…
Oh man, lookit what I got, I gotta PINK BOWL!
Now, I know what yoos all are thinkin’. Yoos are all, “OMG he gotta SISSY GIRL BOWL!” Well, shows what yoos know, eh? Yeah, OK, personally I would’ve preferred the bowl in red because people are, like, always telling me that red is SO my colour, and they are totally right about that, but actually, the Rubinman can carry off any colour really. When you’re as fierce and scary as I am, ain’t no pink bowl in the WORLD can make you look like a sissy. Also, the pink bowl has a crown on it, and that is because I am totally doggie royalty. For real.
Anyway, as you can tell by the “buying of the bowl”, Amber and Terry are liking me again, and that’s because I’ve toned it down a bit with the whole peeing in the house thing. Any more would’ve been overkill, you know what I’m saying? Also, it’s more effective if I lull them into a false sense of security for a while and then BAM! Pee on the kitchen floor! Hee! Anyway, they get over excited when I’m REALLY bad, so I haveta watch it sometimes.
NOT a sissy bowl! RAAAAR!
Well, it’s been Scam City around here this morning. (And Spam City too, come to think of it: sixty emails this morning, only one of which was a real, honest-to-God communication from a real person. GOD.)
First came The Phone Call. Now, I’ve had this phone call before. It comes from an organisation – in this case ‘TNT Children’s Safety – who claim to be in the process of publishing a safety guide for children which will be sent out to parents at all of our local schools, and which is just crying out for my support, in the form of me spending a few hundred pounds on an advert for The Bizniss. Because, you know, saving the children is good, but cynical profiteering under the guise of "helping charity" is even better!
When we were new to business, I’d never fail to be sucked in by these people. I wouldn’t actually buy an advert from them, of course – sometimes being poor has its uses – but I’d believe that they were, indeed, genuine organisations, genuinely trying to help the poor kiddies of the county. As much as I’d believe them, though, I’d also never failed to be angered by them, and the blatant guilt-tripping they’d inevitably engage in. "You don’t want to buy an advert?" the caller would ask, incredulously. "But.. but… Miss McNaught, don’t you care about the children?"
"Nope," I’d answer cheerfully, putting down the phone. "Ask their parents for donations! I am a hardened, child-free bitch donchya know." Well, two can play that game…
Anyway, a couple of years ago I had one such call which rapidly degenerated into the caller trying to convince me that if I didn’t part with my money immediately,children would die instantly and it would ALL BE MY FAULT. In retrospect, I should have probably reported them to… someone… at this point, but the whole kidney failure thing was at its height and I decided to let it lie. More fool me. A few months later I had a phone call from the same organisation, thanking me for my generous support of their cause, and asking if I’d like to take out another advert, in their next wall planner.
Wallplanner? Support? Me? The hell?
I went into shock for a few moments (Had I somehow spent hundreds of pounds on an advert in a wallplanner, without noticing? Where had I got the money? Had they used a picture of me in the advert? What was I wearing in it?) before the penny dropped. There was no wallplanner. There was no "child safety campaign". And no, although they swore blind that I had indeed paid for it, and my advert was RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the planner – right in the middle, people! – there was no advert. They were trying to scam me.
I put this theory to the caller. CLICK! Brrrrrrrr……
So, today, the same thing happens, except ‘TNT Children’s Safety, as they’re now calling themselves, had decided to skip stage one and proceed straight to stage two, with the "Gee, thanks for your advert, Amber, it was published back in May! Would you like another one?" Well, unluckily this lady (Miss Moore, if you want to speak to her. But seriously – don’t.) called me before I’d had my first coffee of the day, so I went at her, all guns blazing. I’m a redhead – we get like that sometimes.
"Miss Moore" told me that I’d taken an advert back in May. I had signed for it and everything! Somehow, through the red veil of anger that was obscuring rational thought (yeah, that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it) I managed to ask her to email me over the agreement so that I could see how well they’d forged my signature. She pretended not to be able to do this, and pretended not to understand what I meant when I asked her to snail mail it to me, although she did finally agree that she would send it through the post. I’m holding my breath as I write this, seriously. Then I asked her for the address and phone number of her organisation and she told me not to be silly (no, she really said that, I’m not making this up), and that she wasn’t going to "waste her time reading out her address" when it would be on the mythical documentation she was going to "forget to send me" anyway.
"Well, you were happy enough to waste my time by calling me to try and scam me with this," was all I managed to get out before I was met with the now familiar CLICK! Brrrr…. Naturally, her phone number had been withheld, and a quick Google reveals that ‘TNT Children’s Safety’ doesn’t exist. Shocker.
Well, after all the drama I was in desperate need of a coffee, so I took my mug (no, not Terry, an actual mug) and headed down the stairs, stopping in my tracks as through the window I saw – THE POLICE. PARKED OUTSIDE MY HOUSE. AGAIN.
Not wanting to face the filth alone, and assuming that someone was, well, dead, I got Terry and stood on trembling legs as he opened the door. Terry was not remotely anxious about this, by the way, and the reason he wasn’t worried? This is is the FIFTH TIME this year this has happened. The FIFTH TIME. Time and time again (well, five times) the police have turned up at our door looking for one David Ronald who they insist lives with us. This one time? They sent FIVE POLICE MEN to collect Mr. Ronald, and clearly didn’t believe me when I said that no, it’s just me, Terry and the dog (who, OK, could do with a night down the cells, but I don’t think it would take five of them to take him in. Four, maybe…). I almost passed out.
This time they’d sent Good Cop and Also Good Cop, though, who immediately accepted that we weren’t concealing a fugitive from the law (again, yes, there’s Rubin, but what they don’t know…), and told us that this time Mr Ronald had been spotted "swinging from the lampposts outside Chicago Rock". GOD. This is the kind of thing we’re being connected to. WHAT MUST THE NEIGHBOURS THINK?
And, oh God, speaking of Neighbours, I think I hear the theme tune starting up…
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