Guest blogger: Royston Blake

People sometimes ask me what I look like. I find that a bit odd, considering they're sat right next to me at the time. Then I recall I'm in the caff up by the blind school, where they does the cheapest bacon butties in town so long as you can trick em that you're blind.

But other folks want to know what I look like as well, folks with odd names like Svetlana, sending me computer letters and asking if I'll bung em some wedge so she can come over here and have sexy fun. And all I can say in response is what I say to them blind ones, as I'm slying a bit of toast off their plate:

Picture the body of Ivan Drago from Rocky 4 and the head of a young Clint Eastwood. With a tash.

That don't mean much to them up at the blind caff, because they don't get to watch films like normal people (I think it's cos them white sticks are a menace in the cinema), but you'll know all about it. I really do look like that, and it's how come I never have to make no effort at all with the birds. All except the blind ones. And let me tell you, there is one bird up there who is fucking quality. I'm munching on my toast and watching her, picturing us in the vid for that Lionel Richie song called "Hello, is it me you're after?" But the tragedy is that she won't ever be mine. I'll never win her because she can't appreciate how handsome I am, and won't ever see me on the door at Hoppers or wherever, knocking heads and booting arses and proving yet again that there ain't no cunt harder than me in the Mangel area. So I just swipe a couple of her sausages instead.

And put a fiver in an envelope for Svetlana.


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