“Good Morning,” said the red haired man who was beginning to have a red face, more through wine consumption than embarrassment. Although he lived in constant fear that somebody would reveal that his favourite artist was Britney Spears and not The Rolling Stones as he usually told everyone. “They just don’t do it for me anymore,” he revealed one drunken evening, “they’re too slow, too loud and too old. I like Britney now. It’s frankly all I can do to try and stop thinking about her.”
“I can see that you haven’t yet.” Replied the man who he now lived in fear of, even though he couldn’t quite remember his name. If pushed, he would probably move a bit, and then say probably “Joey Joe Joesonson.”

“Hi!” Came the rather belated reply.
“Who’s that Mick?”
“That’s our rodie, Keith”
“Really? That’s the fucker who thought Britney was better than us in the pub last night.”
“Right let’s get him man.”
“Yeah don’t you know Britney’s star is fading? It’s all Cristina now”.

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