I know you’re curious about me. What makes me tick? How do I have my tea? Are my underpants red? Am I wearing underpants? How do I get my hair to stay that way? Do I like pets? Is my fridge running? How do I manage to write such emotionally retarded music? How much did I pay the engineer to record my songs? Did I really audition for “Cats”? Am I a true tabby? How do my socks fit? What’s metal? Do we really die? How many jelly beans do I have in my pocket? What am I listening to right now? Has daylight savings started yet? How do they make belacan? Is my true name Roger? What’s my starsign? Do I really enjoy champagne as much as the rumours suggest? Is my portfolio photograph airbrushed? Why do you cry? Does pain cause it? Isn’t Paris elegant at this time of the year? Can I guess where you’re calling from? Have I been to the Paris Hilton? Does playing a tennis racquet instead of a guitar make me an idiot? Do I enjoy spending time with llamas? Can we expect a similar set of questions addressed to “the men”?
