If rumours were true …

I’d have grown a beard by now. As it is, my bum fluff couldn’t polish a midget’s toenail. I’d be rolled in dough, baked for fourty minutes then served sliced, with an assortment of sauces and marinades. As it is, I’ve got a migraine and my catarrh gives even some record producers curry. I’d be a millionaire, for a moment. As it is, I’m doomed to a lifetime of royalty checks that barely cover the cost of a local call in Laos. I’d be surrounded by girls, girls, girls. As it is, I’m often mistaken for a girl, and wherever I go I seem to attract monkeys and donkeys wearing jackets made of felt. I’d be laughing it up. As it is, floating upside down here in my custom=made koala-shaped jacuzzi, I can barely stop the drool from coming out of my mouth. I’d be famous, more famous even than the secretly famous. As it is, my notoriety precedes me like a drunk’s gut. I’d be thin, tanned and buffed. As it is, I can barely touch my hair net. I’d be happy. As it is I’m not. I’d be churning out hits like jatz cracker biscuits. As it is, I’m on the floor, searching for the crumbs of my adolescent cassingle period. I’d be sociable. As it is, I can’t be sociable. If rumours were true, you wouldn’t be reading this – instead, you’d have it stencilled on your eyelids, like that college girl in Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark. As it is, you have no eyelids. Did you just blink?

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