What a morning it’s been. It is only halfway through a long summer day and already pop stars on Radio 2 have suggested that I am beautiful, so vain, gorgeous, the voice, history, no good, more than a number in somebody’s little red book, and in your case, either so improbable as to strain credulity, or rather astonishing.
I know of course, and ''Admit It''; the indie classic does not concern me at all. The burdening of one’s questions and problems, and having one tell no lies (as revealed by all important detector results), the always asking what it (more often than not a furtive fruity text message exchange) is all about and not listening to one’s replies, together with the scalding assertion that a ''guest'' doesn't talk enough but when they do they are a fool are all clear indications that this is quite obviously the transcript of a Jeremy Kyle Show episode somehow impressively prophesied by your good selves in the last century. Further substantiation lies in pushing down the relative (a common occurrence) bringing out the higher self (clearly a symbolic reference to Mr.. Kyle’s ''Security Steve''), encouraging fathers-to-be to think of the fine times, purple prose, or in this case turning the air blue with expletives, giving them (usually cheating spouses) away, and, finally, an exposed jewelry box thief does often shoot through past the scenery into the back corridors followed by out of breath crew, and leave.
I look forward to the things, you say, in response to this revelatory exposure, EMF, and sincerely hope that, as once icily espoused by the granite-jawed host himself, you are not ''Every Mother’s Fear''.
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