I was out with a good friend one night publication which hold a slight rivallry with NME. To set the scene: drinks in Soho transmogrified into drinks at the Intrepid Fox. The conversation inevitably moved on to how wank NME was, instigated by my companion - of that I'm certain.
Then we saw somebody who looked like James Jam heading into the toilets. I was convinced that podgy humourless face could be none other than the (at the time) new music editor of the New Musical Express.
My companion and I moved in a drunken fashion towards the toilets. When Lord Jam of Twat emerged, my friend asked him: "Are you James Jam?"
He replied in the affirmative.
My friend shouted, "you're a cunt," and ran off, leaving me just standing there like a goon.
This anecdote has no relevance. But it is nice to remember and chuckle about.
My inbox groans with the accumulated weight of witless, say-nothing, achingly-silly PR guff. Now I want to share it with the world...
All howlers welcome - please send to:
lostinshowbizATgmailDOTcom
1 comment:
I was out with a good friend one night publication which hold a slight rivallry with NME. To set the scene: drinks in Soho transmogrified into drinks at the Intrepid Fox. The conversation inevitably moved on to how wank NME was, instigated by my companion - of that I'm certain.
Then we saw somebody who looked like James Jam heading into the toilets. I was convinced that podgy humourless face could be none other than the (at the time) new music editor of the New Musical Express.
My companion and I moved in a drunken fashion towards the toilets. When Lord Jam of Twat emerged, my friend asked him: "Are you James Jam?"
He replied in the affirmative.
My friend shouted, "you're a cunt," and ran off, leaving me just standing there like a goon.
This anecdote has no relevance. But it is nice to remember and chuckle about.
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