Baby Scan

I mentioned in a previous post that I was due to have a baby scan:

I am sure a number of you would have assumed that I was joking. I was not. On Tuesday morning I went to Harley Street and had one. Watch the video here.

Thanks to Andy Keels for being there when I needed him most, and for being a good egg photos wise.

I am doing a preview of this show on Friday April 4th in Camden: https://www.facebook.com/events/459775810818955/

Mascot for Bristol Rugby Club

I have now officially totally lost control of my Groupon adventure. As word has spread about my dumb escapades, cynical opportunists have jumped on the bandwagon and bought me Groupons. They present them to me proudly, safe in the knowledge that I would have to do them out of a sense of basic courtesy. This had led to a litany of embarrassments, for example: I am due to have a baby scan next week, and on Saturday I somehow managed to be bullied into spending a first date on a “couple’s photo-shoot”. The poor girl clearly thought it was weird, but for some reason agreed to it. As you can imagine it was monstrously awkward, but she looked lovely. This was probably my favourite photo:

But the mischief has spread even further, I get calls, text and e-mails from people laying down all sorts of gauntlets, totally unrelated to Groupon, but united by the simple spirit of “why not?”. I got this message on Facebook a few weeks ago from my mate Andy:

I obviously didn't do it. (I'm not drinking at the moment). However, there was one offer I could not wriggle my way out of. Yesterday I moonlighted at the mascot for Bristol Rugby Club: for one day only I was “Brizzley Bear”.

The offer came from Dan. A comedy promoter and marketing executive who has spent five years of Saturdays running around The Memorial Ground in Bristol pretending to be a giant bear.  Dan did the first half so I could watch him and learn the ropes, and then at half time I donned the fur for 40 minutes of my own. The kids love Brizzly, so your biggest job is giving all of them high-fives and fist bumps, The younger ones find it magical, the older ones just try and rip your head off. 

I must have ruffled a hundred heads, had a dozen hugs, and posed for a thousand photos.  I signed more autographs in 40 minutes as a fictional bear than I’ve done for the rest of my career combined. They swarm you as you walk around the pitch. I was not required to complete a CRB check prior to the gig, I could have been anyone: for all they knew it might have been Jimmy Saville under that costume. And the costume is incredibly sweaty; this is a picture of me after the game:

A lot of the younger children think you might actually be a bear, so it’s important they don’t see you with your head off. The above picture was taken in the tunnel, and somehow some kids managed to crane their neck around to see me, and quickly exclaimed “Brizzley’s not real!” before bursting into tears. It turns out that this bear doesn’t shit in the woods, but he does defecate all over children's dreams.

Dan’s signature move as Brizzly Bear is the worm, which the kids love. So every time I walked around the pitch, I was met with a chorus of Bristollian oiks screaming “Do the worm! Brizzly! Do the worm!” Now, I can’t do the twatting worm, (as I almost screamed at one particularly persistent pygmy). I tried to sate them with a hastily improvised robot, and I also tried to twerk, but they weren’t interested. All they wanted was the worm: “DO THE WORM BRIZZLEY!”

Close to the end of the game, by the family stand, a enthusiastic steward tried to steamroller me into doing it. “Who wants to see Brizzley do the worm?!” he asked. The crowd erupted. I was furious-I mean, how dare he? I thought “I’m going to maul this prick!” And then remembered I wasn’t actually a bear, but was in fact just a pathetic little dweeb. I tried to whisper to the steward that I couldn’t actually do the worm, but this is very hard to do whilst you have a furry space-ship for a head. He couldn’t hear me above the relentless chorus of “WORM! WORM! WORM!” and the slow hand-claps, so I realised: "I’m going to have to do the worm aren’t I? The actual shitting worm. I CANT DO THE WORM!" 

I did my best. It wasn't a proper worm. It looked like I was trying to have sex with the pitch. Some children booed, a five year old threw their burger at me, an adult ripped up his season ticket and was later seen in the car-park burning a home-made effigy of Brizzley. I had failed. I had let Dan and Bristol down. But at least I was finished, the humiliation was over. I could get showered and changed, and walk unrecognized back to my car as just simple old Max Dickins. 

CUT TO: Monday morning. Dan checks the Brizzley Bear Twitter account, and this is what he finds:

WHAT?! Go f*** Goldilocks? I don't even know where she lives! I am being trolled by a 12 year old boy because I can't do the worm! How has this happened? This isn't what my Groupon Adventure was mean't to be about! What had started off as a bit of Sunday fun has turned into a nightmare. But I don't want the actions of one dick to sully the memories of a glorious day, and I'll choose to remember the better moments, like when I met Humpty Dumpty:

The Spray Tan

I remember one night in 2012, we were watching Have I Got for News for You, and my mother warned me that I’d “end up like Berlusconi”. I assumed she meant that I would become a lying womaniser, or at least that’s what I’d hoped. It turns out that I’ve ended up orange, because on Friday afternoon I had a spray tan. I was going to have it on Thursday, but I had a date that night, so I postponed it. I thought turning up on a date essentially blacked up might send out the wrong signal. I was warned to exfoliate and shower before the tan, which I didn’t know how to do. (Exfoliate I mean, I know how to shower. In fact, I’d say it was one of the few areas in life that I am absolutely world class. I nail it every time. EVERY TIME.)

I had to buy some exfoliating body-scrub from Boots, which took ages because there are a million different sorts. It’s like buying hair wax, which is getting ridiculous now: the choice is absurd. You can get wax, gel, putty, paste, spray, clay; it’s voluminizing, just got out of bed look, wet-look, extreme style, rapist. All the brands are called stupid things like “Fudge”, or “Fish Fingers”, or “Old Man’s Jizz”. Only one of those is made up: “Fudge”. A lot of people think “Old Man’s Jizz” is made up, but you can actually get that: my granddad sells it. You can’t buy it in shops mind, he sells it door to door or at festivals from a van. He doesn’t call it “Old Man’s Jizz” though, obviously, no-one would buy it. He calls it “yoghurt”, because who doesn’t like yoghurt? (His customers, mainly.)

I arrived at the tanning salon. On the way in I walked past a woman who looked like an orang-utan’s ball-bag. The girl behind the counter said I could have “dark or dark dark”, so I asked her what the difference was. “Do you want to look like Enrique Iglesias or Denzel Washington?” she said. I went for “dark”. Kayleigh was very chatty, asking me lots of questions, “So are you having this before you go on holiday or is it just a treat for your boyfriend?”

She showed me to the tanning booth. I had assumed that the process would be basically me stood naked against a wall whilst I was hosed down with orange paint. That’s what I’d heard anyway. However, I was actually shown to an electronic spray-tanning booth, a bit like the Tardis but 4000% more gay. The electronic voice of a woman who sounded like the Tom Tom lady talked me through the whole process. All I had to do was take my clothes off and put a blue fish-net cap on my head. I looked like a Greggs employee who'd had a breakdown.

I had my front done first, ensuring I lifted up my penis for full coverage, before turning around for an even covering. The spray feels cold, like deodorant, and smells like a cross between chocolate and low self-esteem. Fifteen minutes later it was all finished. I wasn’t that brown, which annoyed me for some reason even though I had initially dreaded the whole idea of a fake tan. However, Kayleigh reassured me that the tan would really develop in about eight hours’ time.

Eight hours later I was at the Bloomsbury Theatre watching a show. There were three intervals, and every time I came back from one I was a different race. After the third interval the bloke sat next to me actually said “Sorry mate, someone’s sitting there”. On the tube home I could feel people’s eyes on me, people were staring and then unsubtly whispering things to their friends and giggling. I felt embarrassed and compelled to bury myself in my Evening Standard, but I resisted because embarrassment is kind of the point. My date asked me on Thursday night what I'd learnt from my Groupon adventure, and I told her the biggest thing is that I've been so marinated in humiliation that dignity is not something I feel I need anymore, which is oddly empowering. I mean, six months ago I don't think I would have had the plums to take a date to Weatherspoons on a 50% off voucher. We had two burgers and a bottle of wine for 30p. 

When I got home from the theater I had a shower, which the fake tan turned into some sort of diarrhea theme-park. A day later the colour has mellowed and I’ve got to say I look absolutely gorgeous. I can see why people get addicted to these. But it does seem like a huge amount of expense and hassle to look 10% better than other people in the beauty arms race. I feel sorry for women who are culturally pressured into this sort of thing. They should get government tax-breaks, because a female health and beauty regime is so much more expensive than a man’s. Although that’s changing: I know at least three men who use hair straighteners now. To be fair one of them uses it to make toasties, and another one uses it to punish his neighbour’s cat, but still.

A lot of you are probably wondering what I look like. Here’s a photo taken that night at the Bloomsbury:

Alpaca Trekking

On Sunday afternoon I went on an alpaca trek on a farm near the Kent coast. I spent a couple of hours with my alpaca Hershey, who frankly wasn’t over the moon about the whole arrangement. It was like a very awkward first date.

I'm on the right. Daft Punk on the left.

Here’s another pic, more close up this time. He looks like a fat boy who’s walked through a snow storm:

Hershey was aggressively ambivalent to me the whole time we were together, only feigning any sort of affection when I gave him carrots, the little whore.

The Alapaca trek is obviously a hot ticket in Kent, because I found this car in a ditch on the road into the farm:

 These guys obviously couldn't wait to get to the alpacas, and had taken the bend too fast. I checked in the car to make sure nobody was in it, but there was only some travel sweets and eight quid in cash. Which was handy because there was a farm shop.

The alpaca trek experience is aimed at children predominantly, and the other people on the trek were a mother and her young daughter, but why should kids have all the fun? A point I made vociferously to the girl’s mother when I refused to give her any of the communal carrots.

I subjected our guide Lara to a relentless barrage of questions, notably “Do you ever shampoo the alpacas?” (No). Which is a real shame because that would be very therapeutic I think, getting them all lathered up. Good therapy for the recently bereaved I suggested,  but she disagreed. “What’s the weirdest thing you could make an alpaca breed with?” I asked. She said she didn't understand the question, so I rephrased it “Like, could an alpaca ever mate with a lion?” (No). She mainly spoke to the little girl from this point.

Alpacas are from the camel family, and they are pretty much Llamas in a onesie. That’s their raison d’etre: their famously thick and soft fleece. The thing is, alpacas don’t like you touching their fleece. In fact they don’t like you at all. They are prey animals, meaning that everything is trying to eat them. Which makes them really jumpy: any sort of noise and they bolt. (When I farted Hershey almost took my arm off). They’re also very hierarchical animals, and walk together in a straight line like a woolly conga. If anyone tries get above their station and jump the line they get spat at. Yes: literally spat at. Alpacas have two stomachs (like cows), and they regurgitate green bile from the first chamber and gob it at you. They’re like sheep with ASBOs basically.

Alpacas really are prima-donnas, and what with their hair, it’s like hanging out with a high-maintenance 80s pop band:

Because alpacas can be psychos, farmers often get a few of them to scare off dogs and foxes, like a security guard made out of cushions. Alpacas hate dogs, and if they corner one they jump on it until it dies, like canine bubble wrap. Not so cute now are they? When the little girl heard that her face dropped, as if she had just walked in on her Barbie taking heroin.

We walked around the Romney Marshes for an hour and then returned to the farm to collect our certificates:

 Lara, our guide, asked the young girl and her mother if they would like to be put on the same certificate or have their own. She said the reason she asked was on the last trek she put a married couple on the same certificate and the woman said “No, I want my own certificate just in case we get divorced”. Because that’s the big issue with a divorce isn’t it? Who gets custody of the alpaca certificate? “You can keep the kids! I can have more of the pricks! But there’s only one alpaca diploma!”

Anyway, I had a lovely time. No idea why, but I did. And Hershley and I still text a bit.

NEXT TIME: BIRD OF PREY EXPERIENCE

Colonic Irrigation-WARNING: explicit

This was the worst day of my life. I will be surprised if I am ever more embarrassed than I was yesterday at Acqua di Acqua in High Barnet. If I am then I can’t imagine how. Maybe I’ll be caught sucking off a pig at my son’s wedding, or something. That’s the level we’re talking about. Followers of these pages will know that I have been pursuing my Groupon adventure with a puppyish zeal. However, I was increasingly aware that the stuff I’d tried had not yet really pushed me out of my comfort zone. So when I saw “colonic hydrotherapy” on Groupon, it seemed the ideal opportunity to test myself. Here’s what happened.

I went alone. Believe it or not, it’s actually quite hard to find a buddy to do colonic irrigation with you. I mean it’s not an easy sell, “Hi mate, what you up to this arvo? Fancy having your anus flushed out?” It was so easy to sign up for, just a few clicks of a mouse, and so I hadn’t really considered the consequences. I was going to have 25 litres of water pumped into my colon and intestines by a stranger, using a tube inserted into my rectum. In doing so, 26 years of food debris would be disturbed and flow out of my arse, and then run past my head in a transparent tube like some sort of faecal Generation Game. And there would be a spectator throughout.

I had thought of hiding some stuff up there, you know, to surprise the therapist. Something like a small plastic dolphin, or a message in a bottle, with the message “Let me out!” Or maybe my keys? Then when they flowed down the tube I could loudly proclaim “So that’s where they were!” But I didn’t. The only preparation I did was some light sobbing, and making sure I did a poo before I went. I knew what was about to happen, but I didn’t want my arse to explode at the first prod. I had this vision of the therapist trying to insert the tube and getting a face-full of last night’s roast beef. Like an unlucky government employee who opens a letter bomb, but a letter-bomb crammed with excrement.  

On the morning of the colonic I was totally dreading it. I am ashamed of my bum-hole. It’s hairy, dark and prone to sweating. Like a badger in an airing cupboard. For some reason I have this weird suspicion that my bum-hole might be worse than everybody else’s. But then I thought, “Hang on! IT’S THEIR IDEA TO PLAY AROUND WITH MY BUM-HOLE! Not mine. I haven’t forced it on them: they want to see my bum-hole! They’ve made their stinky bed and they can lie in it!” And anyway, I am probably making a big deal out of it: they must have seen a million bum-holes in their time. Because arseholes are like opinions aren’t they? Everybody’s got one. (Apart from women, they just have a smile down there). The point is: an arsehole is natural. It would be weirder if I didn’t have an arsehole. That really would be disgusting. No, what’s natural should not be a source of shame. An arsehole is like a poppy: you should wear it with pride, and sell it to strangers in honour of the war-dead.

The clinic was on the first floor of a LA Fitness gym. It was further from the station than I thought and I was running late. I sprinted through the howling wind and the rain, and then realised I was lost. I asked a lady where LA Fitness was, she then immediately said “Oh you’re not having a colonic are you? They do them there you know!” I reassured her I wasn’t, “Oh God no! A colonic! How embarrassing! No, I’m here for Zumba.” She gave me directions and I arrived just in time. That’s where the indignity started.

I was handed a form to fill in. At the top was the usual name, address, phone number stuff. And then there were some more personal questions, including: “How would you describe your stools?” To which the answer is “through the medium of dance”. Or: “as a brown catastrophe”. If my shits did internet dating they would describe themselves as “Shy but outgoing after a few drinks”. But there wasn’t a box for that, it’s almost as if they hadn’t considered poos going dating. The only options were:

Fat Sausage

Skinny sausage

Rabbit droppings

Pebbles

Loose Diahorrea (which was the working title for “Loose Women”)

I didn’t answer. A lady sat opposite me in the waiting area caught me dithering on the question. “I put fat sausage!” she said proudly.

The therapist came over to me in the reception area: it was my turn. She showed me to the room and shut the door. There were three rooms in total, all linked to the small reception area. She explained to me that we all carry around 8kgs of waste in our colons, before emphasizing “Which is the equivalent to a large cat”. A cat’s worth of shit. It really makes you think doesn’t it? It really makes you think: what sad wanker worked that out?

Our bowels are about 20 feet long, which the equivalent to 18 large cats. My treatment today would only access about a fifth of that, she said. Apparently we should go for a poo after every meal: that’s the natural way. But we’ve trained ourselves not to, and so we get backed-up.  She’s a three poos a day girl she boasted; some of her customers have two poos a month. She pointed to the tube: “If the water is yellow then that’s toxins, the lumps are undigested food waste, and the bubbles are gas”.

 The bed itself was plastic and shaped like a pedalo. Around halfway up was a stiff plastic tube. “What you need to do is lube up the tube with this, and insert it into your anus. Lie down on the bed and lower yourself onto it. When you’re done ring the bell.” This is going to sound mad but I was delighted at this news. I thought she was going to stick the pipe in for me, but now I was saved from this embarrassment. She left and I got undressed from the waist down. With the tube up my arse, and a white towel concealing my offal, I called her back in.

I had never felt more exposed. Here I was with a tube up my bum, my legs astray and elevated, with a Polish woman about to fill my intestines full of liquid. She had her hand on the tap. “Ready?” she said. I nodded and she switched it on, putting about five litres in first. “When you feel cramps in your stomach I want you to push” she said, looking me straight in the eyes. “Like when you go to the toilet”. I couldn’t feel anything yet. “Push!” she ordered. I did my best. Can you imagine having a beautiful Polish girl watching you make your constipated face? Nothing was happening. I tried to make small talk, “So do you live round here?” She ignored me, and turned the tap back on. She seemed genuinely worried at this stage, baffled by how much water I could take in my arse without feeling pain. I was growing worried too, “Are you sure it’s in?” I said. She nodded.

Now I could feel the cramps, like I’d done too many sit-ups. “I can feel it!” I said, absolutely delighted. “Push! Push!” she bellowed. And I really tried, but nothing was coming out. I really felt like I was letting her down. I felt embarrassed that I couldn’t shit myself in front of this gorgeous girl. It was like being in nursery school all over again. “Sorry” I said. (The most English thing I’ve ever done). “Maybe if I go you can relax?” she said, and left the room with the tap on.

I got the hang of it: you wait to be filled up to the extent that you cramp, and then you contract your diaphragm, pushing the water out of your arse. I began to see the tube by my head fill up. So what does it feel like? Well, I’ve never been bummed but, (and never started a sentence “Well, I’ve never been bummed”), I’ve never been bummed but a colonic is like being bummed by a sea whilst simultaneously taking the biggest shit of your life. It feels a bit like giving birth to a wet ghost from your arse. Sometimes so much water goes in that you feel like vomiting, as if you are about to turn into one of those cherub fountains where water goes in your bum and straight out your gob. Which biologically makes no sense: there isn’t a straight line between your mouth and your arse, otherwise digestion would be like dropping food down an empty lift shaft.

She came back in. Something very strange had happened. I had gone from being initially terribly embarrassed, to feeling like I was letting her down, to now being proud about what I was getting out of my arse. It was weirdly satisfying, weirdly competitive. She was stood at the end of the bed smiling, talking to me whilst I was visibly and audibly shitting myself. ”Well done!” she congratulated me, obviously impressed. “What have you seen? Toxins? Lumps? Gas?” “Bit of everything”, I said, barely containing my excitement. I was showing off now. The thought genuinely crossed my mind: maybe I could ask her out? Then I did a massive fart and thought better of it.

She began looking closely at the tube, and her tone suddenly changed. “You don’t chew your food properly”, she said. “Sorry” I replied. “That’s why you’re so blocked up. Your body can’t digest lumps so they just sit in your colon”. She walked out shaking her head. I was getting into it now, it had begun to feel natural. I could do it without thinking, so I made a few work calls. I could also now differentiate between the quality of the expulsions: you know you’ve done a good one when it feels like warm soup full of chestnuts. If the water is yellow then it is full of toxins, mine was the colour of stout. I can actually say at this stage that I had begun to enjoy myself: she had made me feel really comfortable, I felt in safe hands: she seemed really passionate about my arse. As if she has been waiting to see me for years and was delighted that I had finally come. The enjoyment wasn’t to last much longer though.

It was very drafty in the room because the window had been left a little ajar to help with the smell. The door blew open, meaning that anyone in reception could see directly up my arse. Luckily it was empty. I began ringing the bell like mad, terrified but grateful of my lucky escape. But suddenly someone came into reception. It was the woman who had given me directions. AT THIS STAGE I WOULD HAVE HAPPILY SHOT MYSELF. I had time for a brief wave before I was rescued at last by the apologetic Polish girl.

She switched off the machine, and told me in my own time to pull myself off the tube, wipe my bum and get dressed. She’d see me in reception. I eventually exited the room, having checked the directions lady had gone, and was given a small drink full of friendly bacteria to re-stock my bowel. It was time to go, but I had time for a brief chat with my therapist. What was the weirdest thing she’d found up a bum? “Marbles. A lot of child’s teeth.” Do you have the treatment yourself? “Oh yes. It’s really addictive. I have one every week. Just plug myself in.” Another customer needed to be seen now so I got up to leave. Outside I realised that I left my coat hanging on the back of the door in my cubicle. So I went back in to get it. Except that I got the wrong door and walked in on a stranger. "I am so sorry", I said, "I am sorry about everything".

Lord of Chaol Ghleann

I always said it would happen. Even when I was a young child I insisted I’d make it to be one of the landed aristocracy, a philosopher king with his own green and pleasant land. My mother says I was actually born wearing a crown, which must have really hurt her vagina. But the point is, it was absolutely no surprise to me when, on the 28th December 2013, I received the Deed of Entitlement to Dunans Castle in the Scottish Highlands. I look forward to diligently serving my people, receiving royalty, and getting shit-loads of puss.

Alright, I bought it on Groupon for about twelve quid. Alright, I only own a square foot of the land around Dunans Castle. But the fact still remains that I am Lord of Chaol Ghleann and legally entitled to use my new title. In fact, this morning I rang up Orange and got them to change the name on my bills to Lord Dickins. 

I have been cordially invited to visit Dunans Castle “at your earliest convenience”. So it looks like they’re pretty excited to have me on board. And I will certainly be paying them a visit soon, but probably when the weather gets, well, a bit less Scottish. They don’t know what they have got themselves in for with me. I am, as the Scots say, “a wee prick”. And I've already written them this e-mail:

Dear Mr Dixon-Spain.

I am absolutely delighted to be Laird of Chaol Ghleann, it is a tremendous honour and privilege for you to have me. I notice that I own around a square foot of the land in the estate. My research suggests that this amounts to a 12 inch by 12 inch square of land. And all that for 12 quid! That would cost me two hundred grand in London. Anyway, here’s the thing: would it be OK if I was buried in your grounds? I am not planning to die soon, this is not a suicide note, I would just like to make plans now for my own piece of mind. Whilst a square foot is not a huge amount of land, it would probably be sufficient if:

A)     I was buried upright (like a statue).

B)      I went on a diet.

So what do you think? Dunans Castle has always been close to my heart since I bought the title last week, and it would mean a lot to me to rest for eternity amongst your glorious grounds. I won’t be any bother, I certainly wouldn’t haunt you. In fact, I think I would actually be quite a helpful ghost, keeping an eye out for poachers and the like.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours

John Barnes

PS My favourite film is Braveheart.

You’ll note that the e-mail comes not from me, but from John Barnes. I have to use an alias in these acts of mischief so as to not get rumbled, so naturally I chose the name of former Liverpool winger/rapper John Barnes. Anyway: Mr Dixon Spain replied!

I’m glad that the idea of strangers being buried, in what is essentially his garden, is one that he “likes immensely”. It does beg the question: what other weird shit does he like immensely? Perhaps I should ask if he would mind if I used the grounds of Dunans Castle as a dogging site? 

All Lords need their own Coat of Arms. Here is the official Coat of Arms of Dunans Castle:

And here is my own personal Coat of Arms:

That is definitely the worst joke you’ll see this year. And I wrote this on January 8th.

Now, one of the reasons I have purchased my title is that I expect it to open lots of doors for me. As a nobleman I deserve more perks than you,  the average berk. So I have applied for a Nandos Black Card, which when I receive it, will entitle me to infinite free Nandos for the rest of my life.

I imagine you’re getting pretty jealous at this stage, and so you should. But it’s not all sunshine and rainbows being a Lord, it comes with its own unique pressures. For example, since I have become a Lord I have felt the cold winds of other people’s envy blowing right into my regal face. But I’m a big boy, I can cope with that. However, what really hurts is when people think I’m lying about being a Lord.  For example, I went to a house party on New Year’s Eve and met a girl called Georgia*. I was drunk. I told her almost immediately I was a Lord, and we chatted about this for a while.

"Where's your manor?"

"What's it like being a Lord?"

"Have you seen Lord of the Rings?"

 It went pretty well thanks for asking. She gave me her number (obviously), before leaving the party. I texted her the next day arranging a date, and all was fine. Now, three days a go she texted me this message:

“Are you definitely a Lord? My friends aren’t sure…x”

To which I replied:

“Am deffo a Lord. Do you like Thai food?x”

No reply.

Then, last night, she texted me this:

“Hey, I’ve been having a think, and I’ve got feelings for someone else. Really sorry to mess you around. X”

A likely story: she just doesn't believe I’m a Lord. Well, as mummy says: “haters gonna hate”, so I think I’ll join Sugar Daddy Dating instead. I’m bound to find a more classy girl on there.

*Georgia is obviously a fake name. I would never reveal the girl's real name, I’m not an arsehole. (Your secret is safe with me Lucy!)

UPDATE ON JAN 10TH

Nandos replied!

Hi Lord Max,

Thanks for taking time out of your undoubtedly busy schedule to contact us.

I'm sure you can appreciate when I say to you that I have absolutely no control over who gets a Nando's Black Card and if I did I would do my at most best to try and get you one.

Nevertheless it’s brilliant to see how passionate you are about Nando’s. I do enjoy a decent PERi-PERi meal myself if I must add.

Kindest regards,

Idris Allan

Customer Experience

Such a shame! But at least it was brilliant for Idris to see how passionate I am about Nandos, I bet I made her day. In fact, when people ask me at job interviews or on dates what I am really passionate about the first thing that comes to mind is: NANDOS. It's all I think about: fromt he moment I get up, to the moment I go to sleep. Nandos. Nandos. Nandos.