I went to my friend Shura's birthday party on Friday night with my friend Becky. We sat in Shepherds Bar. I, munching a packet of Walkers Sensations whilst Becky nibbled on a Cadbury's Boost. We were both starving and couldn't be arsed to buy the overpriced bar food. The bar itself, was owned by and in the same building as the company Endemol, the makers of Big Brother. It was full of 'medja' types and while we waited for Shura to turn up, we churned out our usual conversation, overlapping each other's tales, as we normally did, twitching in nervous anticipation, much like a pair of nervous lap dogs waiting to be petted by Barbara Cartland. Two hours later, the party was in full swing and we found ourselves sat with Shura, who had embraced my gift of a vintage Swarovski bracelet with such abundant joy and passion that only she could give. Pleased I had become 'Present Giver Of The Year' once again, I sat back, relaxed and started talking to the collective of friends around me. Becky was being praised by a young black girl who exclaimed how beautiful Becky was, which to be fair, she is. She is quite the bohemian, tousled hair of feminine beauty and beads indeed - no matter what she thinks. An hour later, I found myself chatting to the same envious lady and felt compelled to tell her unequivocally, that despite thinking my friend was incredibly pretty, she herself was quite stunning too. "Oh no. I look rough as houses tonight." she protested. "Nonsense," I replied, "You look like fucking Beverley Knight for fuck sake!"
To which she replied "I am Beverley Knight."