Tuesday, June 02, 2009

Hair of the Toggy

Cockney cheeky chappie Rob Kneesupmutha Brown had a bit of a bad hair day on Monday. Turning up to work the photographer with the rapidly receding hairline looked quite normal from the front. But when he turned around there appeared to be tufts of long hair poking out amid his otherwise shaven bonce.
Being the discreet person I am, I shouted: "Bloody hell, Browny, what has happened to your hair?"
Immediately he moved to cover up the sprouting shoots, which appeared to be growing like weeds out of the back of his carefully tended garden of stubble.
"Oh God, I was hoping no one would notice," he admitted, finally donning a rather bizarre baseball cap backwards. "I was using my clippers today and the batteries went half way through. I had no alternative than to come to work like this."
Being follicly challenged myself I could understand the dilemma, but I think I might have risked a wet shave all over rather than turning up like an extra from Schindler's List.

The Prince of Darkness got somewhat confused on Friday night. Not surprising really since the dark lord had taken the day off and spent the majority of a sun-kissed afternoon sitting outside Las Iguanas in Cardiff's quaintly named Cafe Quarter knocking back jugs of cocktails with the Wonderful Withers of WoS.
By the time Jarhead and I joined the happily inebriated pair, the Prince was already telling the same stories to anyone who was prepared to listen. "You know the guitarist who plays in O'Neill's?" he slurred. "Well, he serves behind the bar in here. I've been having a bit of a chat with him."
Shortly afterwards, retiring to the bar to order two jugs of Long Island Iced Tea with extra vodka (purely for himself, I surmise) he seemed to get his wires crossed when addressing said Barman.
"What would you like?" the barkeep inquired of the unearthly one.
"How about some Arctic Monkeys?" asked the Prince, vacantly.

Next day and it appears the Prince was in need of a hair of the dog, too. When the Wonderful One texted him to inquire of his welfare early the next morning, the crypt-bound one replied: "Just having a gin."
News reaches me that he later set out camping. But rather than tent poles, pegs, calor gas cooker and lots of useful balls of string, the Prince's only contribution to getting back to nature? A bottle of voddie tucked into his backpack.

1 comment:

Mrs Browne said...

A little tufty he may have been...but his handsome looks carried it off.